Vendetta for Voldemort
by Black Phoenix Risen
Summary: Voldemort has taken over Wizard England and is imposing his new laws. On the evening of November 4th, muggle-born Evey meets a mysterious terrorist, known only as V, hellbent on bringing down Voldemort's corrupt government. Over the course of a school year, V becomes a famous figure in Wizard London, a distraction from the dark lord's search for Harry Potter. T for adult themes
1. The Overture

I do not own V for Vendetta, Harry Potter, or various London landmarks. I do own my OCs

Chapter 1: The Overture

A lone girl walked down a dark street in London. She was wearing little more than a nightgown under her coat. Her eyes were wide and her breath short, still trying to contemplate what she was about to do. She glanced back and forth across the street, looking for a potential client. A cold breeze blew past her and she quickly drew her wand and ran over to a nearby trash can. "Incendio!" she whispered, pointing her wand at the trash. Immediately, it ignited in magical flame. She spent a few minutes heating herself up, but she couldn't pay the bills with magic, and her job paid barely enough for her to eat. If she didn't find money tonight, she would be out on these streets for good by the next night.

She had walked all the way to Westminster when she finally saw a man hidden in shadows putting out a cigarette in an alley. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She had no desire to do this, but she needed the money more than she needed her dignity.

Her eyes snapped open and she started forwards towards the man. "Um, excuse me, sir?" the man glanced up, "Would you, um, like to sleep with me?" The man looked up incredulously. "For money, I mean."

He smiled. "That's got to be the clumsiest proposition I've ever heard."

Despite her nervousness, the girl had to crack a smile at the awkwardness of the situation. "Oh God." She giggled, "I'm sorry."

"Is this your first time, love?"

"Yes, no, I mean for money. But I know what I want and I'll do it." She blushed, trying not to show her embarrassment. "Anything you want, sir. I know I'm young, but I need the money and I promise I know what I'm doing."

The man sighed with a smile. "No," he said drawing a small, silver badge from his pocket, "You don't know what you're doing."

The girl gasped and backed away. "Oh God, you're a Snatcher."

The man barked a laugh. "Give the little lady a prize!"

A hand fell from the shadows onto the girl's shoulder and she spun around to see two more Snatchers smiling at her. "I've got something to give her!" snickered one of them. The two snatchers grabbed the girl by the arm and she struggled vainly against their powerful grips.

Her wand fell out of her coat and fell to the cobbled street with a clatter. The first Snatcher picked it up and twirled it between his fingers. "Tut tut, love," he said with a look of mock disappointment, "Prostitution's a Class H offense. That means we get to exercise our judicial discretion."

One of the Snatchers holding the girl whispered in her ear and she gasped, the blood rushing from her face. "Oh God! Please! Please don't hurt me!"

The first Snatcher held her chin. "Mmm, what do you think, lads?"

Their grip on the girl tightened. "Spare the rod, spoil the child." Said one with a grin. The girl whimpered as the first Snatcher smiled cruelly. "Hear that, love? This rod's for your own good." He grabbed her by the throat and shoved her against the brick wall. She cried as her cheek burst into pain. She heard the harsh clink of belt buckles coming off and she squeezed here eyes tightly, wishing all of this would end.

"The multiplying villainies of nature do swarm upon him," said a voice, "And fortune, on his damned quarrel, smiling, showed like a rebel's whore." The Snatchers turned away from their prize.

"The hell?"

"Oy, we're officers, mate!"

"We're with the ministry, so bugger off!"

A figure moved in the shadows of the street and the Snatchers fingered their wands anxiously. "Disdaining fortune with his brandished steel," said the voice, growing closer and closer, "Which smoked with bloody execution." A flash of a knife was all that was needed for the Snatchers to draw their wands. From the shadows came a black fist, shooting forwards faster than the naked eye could follow. It hit the first Snatcher in the chest and sent him flying backwards. The girl opened her eyes just in time to see the Snatcher flung towards her and she ducked, letting the man smash into the brick wall, a knife stuck deftly through his chest.

The other two Snatchers could be credited with managing twin Expelliarmus spells before the shadows struck again. Both spells missed and the figure flashed his knife passed one's throat, cutting it open.

"Oh, God!" whispered the last Snatcher, "Luminos!" his wand lit up, showing the face of his attacker for the first time, inches away from his own. It was a man in a black cloak with a large, wide-brimmed black hat. His most distinguished feature, however, was a white mask that covered his face. It was the unmistakable visage of the legendary English traitor guy Fawkes, but the mask showed his face split into a wide grin, both charming and horrifying at the same time.

The Snatcher screamed, half in fear of his opponent, half in pain as a knife was plunged into his stomach. The figure stepped back into the shadows and turned to the petrified girl, pressed against the wall next to the deceased Snatcher, as the final assaulter fell over, dead. "Good evening, madam." The girl panted and scrambled along the wall. "I can assure you, ma'am," said the figure, "I mean you know harm."

Her eyes were wide with fear and her heart racing faster than it ever had before. "Who…who are you?"

The figure cocked his head to the side. "Who is but the form following the function of what, and what I am is a man in a mask."

The girl snorted nervously, clutching the wall for support. "Well I can see that!"

"Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation; I'm merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man who he is."

The girl stared at him. "Right." She said slowly.

The man opened his cloak and gestured to the night sky. "But on this most auspicious of nights, permit me then, in lieu of more commonplace sobriquet, to suggest the character of this dramatis persona:" he cleared his throat and crouched suddenly, moving animatedly as he spoke. "Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition." The man turned sharply and deftly carved a large letter V on the brick wall behind him. He slowly turned back to the girl. "The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous." The man chuckled to himself, but the girl, he sounded downright mad. "Verily," continued the man, "This vichyssoise of verbiate veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it is my very good honor to meet you." He bowed, and removed his hat, revealing straight, shoulder length black hair. "And you may call me V," he replaced his hat and stood up.

For a moment, the girl simply stared at V in silence. "Are you, like, a crazy person?" she asked quietly, not entirely sure she wanted the answer.

V leaned back on his heels and lifted his head slightly. "Oh, I'm quite sure they will say so. But to whom, might I ask, am I speaking?"

The girl hesitated. "I'm Evey."

V turned his head thoughtfully. "Evey, E – V. Curious, curious."

Evey gave him a strange look. "Um, what's curious? What does that mean?

"It means that I, like God, do not play with dice and do not believe in coincidence. Here." He held out his hand and Evey gasped as she saw her wand. She quickly darted forward and grabbed it. "I see you are a witch, correct?" Evey nodded hesitantly, pocketing her wand. "Yet you live in muggle London? Could it be that you are…muggle-born?"

Evey immediately drew out her wand again. "What's it to you? Are you with the ministry?"

V held his hands up in surrender. "I have just killed three men under the Ministry of Magic's jurisdiction, I believe you can safely trust me when I tell you I am in no way associated with that newborn hive of scum and villainy." He paused, "Do you enjoy music Evey?"

Evey slowly lowered her wand. "I suppose."

"You see, I am a musician of sorts," said V eagerly, "And I am on my way to give a very special performance."

Evey raised an eyebrow. "What kind of musician?"

"Percussion instruments are my specialty," said V stepping over the corpse of a Snatcher, "But tonight I intend to call upon the entire orchestra for this particular event, and I would be most honored if you could join me."

Evey glanced into the dark streets. She could make a run for it. "I don't think so," she said, slowly edging away.

"I promise you," said V, not trying to catch her as she began walking backwards away from him, "It will be like nothing you've ever seen before."

Evey stopped, her curiosity piqued. "I doubt that. I went to Hogwarts." She said derisively.

V cocked his head. "Well, there is only one way to find out, isn't there?" she hesitated. "I swear to you," he said softly, "Afterwards, you will be returned home safely."

Evey stared at him, thinking hard. "Alright," she said finally. V held out his hand like a gentleman asking for a dance. Evey took it and he suddenly pulled her towards him. He led her to a fire ladder, hidden in the darkness and bowed, motioning for her to go first. Evey glared at him. "If you look up my dress, I'll stomp on your face."

"A lax punishment," he said, "Wouldn't you rather kill me for such a violation of your privacy?" Evey stared at him and shook her head in confusion. She took the ladder and hoisted herself up to the first balcony.

From there, stairs led to the top of the apartment building and Evey gasped as she looked out over the London skyline. "It's so beautiful up here!" she whispered in awe as V joined her. "I can see everything!"

"A more perfect stage could not be asked for." Said V.

Evey looked around. "Um, I don't see any instruments."

"Your powers of observation continue to serve you well," said V dryly. He flashed open his cloak and drew a long, thin, conductor's baton. "But wait!" he cried, "It is to Madam Justice that I dedicate this concerto." He motioned to the golden statue atop the Old Bailey building in the distance. "In honor of the holiday she seems to have taken from these parts, and in recognition of the imposter that stands in her stead; the whore of the dark lord." V turned to Evey, "Tell me, Evey, do you know what day it is?"

"Um, November the 4th?"

In the distance, church bells began to ring. Big Ben gonged across the river. "Not anymore, murmured V, his face slowly turning to the sky. "Remember, remember," V recited, "The fifth of November, the Gunpowder Treason and Plot. I know of no reason why the Gunpowder Treason should ever be forgot." V rolled his shoulders and tapped his baton on a nearby pipe, calling an invisible orchestra to order. "First," he said, almost to himself, "The overture. Yes, yes, the strings." He began to gently conduct. "Listen carefully, can you hear it?" Evey stared at him. There was no music. "Now the brass…" V continued to move his arms.

Slowly, Evey became aware of sound. She slowly walked to the edge of the building and looked down onto the street. "I can hear it." She said softly. Indeed, the stains and tones of the 1812 Overture were growing louder and louder until they were blasting from the London Sound System. People started to stream onto the streets to see the commotion. Evey felt her heart rise and fall with the grand and epic piece.

"Wait!" Cried V, unbridled joy palpable in his voice. "Here comes the crescendo!" He raised his arms triumphantly to the Old Bailey and, just as the music climaxed, Lady Justice exploded in a giant fireball. Evey gasped and watched as the iconic building exploded with the force of a thousand spells. V laughed, not in insanity, but in happiness. "How beautiful, is it not?!" he shouted over the explosions. From the fire erupted a series of fireworks, forming a massive, flaming V in the sky above the rubble. The song ended with the explosions and V dropped his hands to his side. "Oh, that was fun!" he sighed contentedly, "But all good things must come to an end. Now, I believe I promised to see you home?" He offered Evey his arm and she took it, completely immersed in shock.

She did not remember getting home, or being tucked into bed. The next thing she new, her alarm was blaring, telling her to get ready for another day at the hell that was the Daily Prophet's Radio Department.


	2. The Voice of London

Same disclamers as before

Chapter 2: The Voice of London

"My friends," Voldemort stood at the head of the table. His face was expressionless and betrayed nothing of his feelings towards the destruction of the Old Bailey. "It has been four hours. What have we learned?" Around the table, various black cloaked Death Eaters shot nervous looks at each other. Only two looked unfazed by their master's questions.

"My Lord," said Bellatrix Lestrange with a bow of her head, "The destruction of the Old Bailey appears to have been the work of a terrorist. The muggles found the remains of explosives in what was left of the building." Voldemort showed no emotion, but his oldest supporters had learned to notice the small things; the slight drooping of his eye lids, the minuscule twitch at the corner of his mouth, and other such things.

"So it has nothing to do with us?"

"No, my Lord."

Voldemort stood and turned towards the door. "Then we have no further business to discuss. Find the one responsible before he accidentally kills a wizard and end him. Report back to me if you find any information on Potter." The dark lord stood in the doorway before disapparating to God-knows where. As soon as he left, his disciples began whispering amongst themselves.

Bellatrix turned to the man seated to her right. "What do you think of all this, Yaxley?"

Yaxley yawned. "Oh, who cares? It was just a bloody building. Nobody got hurt, none of our lot anyway. No harm done, just some stupid muggle making a statement."

"You have no idea how right you are."

Yaxley nearly fell out his chair. "Bloody hell, Severus! Don't scare me like that!"

Severus Snape stepped out of the shadows and Bellatrix turned up her nose. "Thought I smelled scum nearby." She muttered.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Careful, Bella." Snape walked forward and took the seat to the right of Yaxley, its owner having left some time ago. "We must consider the possibility that the destruction of the Old Bailey was meant to be directed at us." He said.

Bellatrix snorted. "You heard me; it was muggle explosives that did it, not a spell."

Snape nodded. "Exactly. Keeps us off the trail of whoever did it. It wasn't a magical attack so we don't consider it our business. But the Old Bailey was a symbol of justice.

And, whether we like it or not, there are those who believe that what we've done to the ministry is an attack on the righteousness that Madam Justice stood for." Snape glanced up at Bellatrix. She had her arms folded over her chest and was looking out the window. "It's improbable," he said, "But we must entertain the notion that this is a warning to us."

Bellatrix sighed and unfolded her arms, putting her hands on her hips. "What do you suggest, Severus?"

Snape thought for a moment. "I know a man." He said, "He used to be an auror, but he sided with us. He's a detective and a damn good one. With the resources of the ministry, he might be able to find the terrorist before he strikes again."

"What's his name?" asked Yaxley.

"Finch."

. . .

Evey was pushing a cart through the halls of the Daily Prophet office. Every few seconds, she would hand out a cup of tea or coffee blindly; half-knowing the beverage would find its proper recipient, half-hoping. Finally, she pushed the now-empty cart into the small room she shared with another girl at the end of the hall. She closed the door behind her and sighed, leaning against it.

"Tough day, eh?" asked Sarah. Evey nodded and walked to her desk. The other girl turned back to the radio she was listening too.

"And in other news," said the radio announcer, "It was announced this morning that the destruction of the Old Bailey was an intentional trick by the New Order. Prime Minister Thickness wanted to 'Show the old girl out with a bang'. The demolition of the Old Bailey represents the exit of the old ways and traditions, and the Prime Minister promises that the New Bailey will be 'A symbol of our shining, glorious domination over the muggles'."

Sarah sneered and shut off the radio. "Do you believe that bullocks?" she asked. Evey just shook her head, keeping her eyes on her desk as she sorted through copious amounts of paperwork. "Weren't no bloody demolition." Muttered Sarah, "I saw it. You see it?" Evey shook her head again and tapped some papers evenly on the desk. There was a knock at the door and a tall, blond woman let herself in.

"Evey!" she snapped, "You do still work for me, don't you?"

Evey stood at attention and gulped. "Yes, Patricia."

Patricia handed Evey a large, heavy box. "I'd have an owl send this, but they're all being used. Downstairs to booth 3." Evey quickly left the room and ran for the lift, struggling to carry the heavy, cardboard box. She got to lift just before her arms gave out and she lay to box on the floor as gently as she could. She quickly hit the buttons for the recording studio level and the doors closed with a ding behind her.

As the lift descended, Evey stared at the box. This is what she had been reduced to, a bloody owl. How had it come to this?

The lift doors opened and Evey picked up the box with a groan. Recording booth 3 was the home of Lewis Prothero's Evening Rant show, a propaganda machine now supported and enforced by the New Order. Currently, however, it was filled with girls in frilly outfits. Evey grimaced as she pushed open the door with her foot. She had always heard that old Prothero was a bit of a pervert, but this seemed a bit too far for a radio show. She swore that some of the girls weren't even attempting to cover themselves.

Evey put the box down on a table next to a microphone. "What's that then?" asked one of the girls.

Evey shrugged. "They just told me to take it to booth 3."

The girl smirked. "Probably some dress-up costumes from Prothero." She drew out her wand. "Diffindo." The tape shredded itself and the flaps of the box flew open. Evey turned white and backed away. The girl leaned forward and withdrew a white Guy Fawkes mask. "Huh, these are weird. I guess us girls just don't do it for the old bugger."

Evey backed out of the room. She needed to leave, now.

. . .

The doors to the main lobby of the Daily Prophet building swung open. The security guard looked up and gasped. He stood and drew his wand. "Oi!" he shouted, "Hands in the air! Take off the mask!"

In the doorway stood V, his black cloak wrapped tightly around him. With a wave, the cloak blew open. The guard was a pureblood wizard, but even he knew what fifty pounds of C4 explosives looked like and what they could do. "Bloody hell." He whispered, dropping his wand.

"Please, sir." Said V, "If you would be so kind to put me on the air? Oh, and I had a few things delivered to recording booth 3. If you would kindly grab them for me, I would be oh so grateful."

. . .

Evey grabbed her bag and towards the lift. Just as she got to it, a loud voice rang out, amplified by a Sonorus charm. "Emergency evacuation! Everybody out!" Immediately, the hallways were overrun with people fighting for her position near the lift. Evey was actually picked up and thrown backwards behind the crowd of people. Panicking, Evey ran back to her office and dove under her desk. Sarah had left the radio on.

"It appears we are having some technical difficulties." Said the announcer smoothly, "Please stand by." Evey stared at the radio as it began spitting static. For a few seconds, she heard nothing but fuzz. Then, the airwaves cleared and she heard a familiar voice.

"Good evening, Wizarding London." Said V, "Allow me first to apologize for this interruption. I do, like many of you, appreciate the comforts of every day routine; the security of the familiar, the tranquility of repetition. I enjoy them as much as any bloke. But in the spirit of commemoration, whereby those important events of the past, usually associated with someone's death or the end of some awful bloody struggle, a celebration of a nice holiday, I thought we could mark this November the 5th, a day that is sadly no longer remembered, by taking some time out of our daily lives to sit down and have a little chat. There are of course those who do not want us to speak. I suspect even now, orders are being shouted into telephones, and men with guns will soon be on their way. Why? Because while the truncheon may be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power. Words offer the means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth. And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn't there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression. And where once you had the freedom to object, to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission. How did this happen? Who's to blame? Well certainly there are those more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable, but again truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror. I know why you did it. I know you were afraid. Who wouldn't be? People dying left and right, the demise of the late Albus Dumbledore and so many other wonderful and renowned wizards and witches. There were a myriad of problems which conspired to corrupt your reason and rob you of your common sense. Fear got the best of you, and in your panic you turned to the now Prime Minister, Pius Thickness, and his dark master, the one you call Voldemort."

Evey felt like she could hear the gasps across the city as every wizard and witch in London heard the dark lord's name. "He promised you order, he promised you peace, and all he demanded in return was your silent, obedient consent. Last night I sought to end that silence. Last night I destroyed the Old Bailey, to remind this country of what it has forgotten. More than four hundred years ago a great citizen wished to embed the fifth of November forever in our memory. His hope was to remind the world that fairness, justice, and freedom are more than words, they are perspectives. So if you've seen nothing, if the crimes of this government remain unknown to you, then I would suggest you allow the fifth of November to pass unmarked. But if you see what I see, if you feel as I feel, and if you would seek as I seek, then I ask you to stand beside me in seven months time, outside the gates of the ministry. For on the second of May, King Henry VIII accused his wife of hainus crimes she did not commit, much in the same way the ministry does now to those born of muggles. Join me, and together we shall give them a second of May that shall never, ever be forgot." The radio went dead and Evey stared at it, confused, but encouraged by the words she had heard.

. . .

Dozens of Death Eaters apparated outside the recording booth at the exact same time. "Alright, lads." Said one of them, "Let's do this. Flipendo!" the door was blasted off its hinges. Inside, the booth was dark and spewed forth thick smoke. "Damn!" muttered the Death Eater, making his way inside.

"Don't!" cried a voice in the darkness. A figure in a Guy Fawkes mask leapt forward. "Please!"

The Death Eater turned. "Avada Kedavra!" the spell hit the man in the mask square in the chest, killing him instantly. "Got 'im!" said the Death Eater proudly.

"Did you, though?" asked a voice. The Death Eaters turned to see a thirty-something man in a black trench coat step into the room.

"Who're you?" asked a Death Eater.

"Name's Finch, and I just got put in charge." There was some murmuring amongst the Death Eaters, but Finch ignored them. He knelt down next to the corpse and gently removed the mask. It was a man with a headset, clearly someone who worked in the building. His hands were tied behind his back and two pieces of a broken wand stuck out of his back pocket. Finch stood. "Don't do anything until I say so." He said. As he spoke, more figures emerged from the smoke, all with identical hats, wigs, cloaks, and masks.

"He's got a bomb!" cried one, "Wired it to the controls!"

Finch grimaced. "Everyone wearing a mask on their knees!" he shouted. His orders were taken immediately. "Get their masks off." He told the Death Eaters. "I'll go see about this bomb.

The control booth was next to the recording booth and had a small table with a dashboard on it. On the board was a large stack of red explosives attached by wire to a counter. Sitting at the board was a tall, blonde woman.

Finch put his hand on her shoulder and the woman jumped in surprise. "Let's go." Said Finch, motioning to the door.

The blonde glared at him. "Do you have any idea how long it would take to get the Prophet up and running again? This building contains every vestige of information the Wizarding World gets every day."

Finch tightened his grip on her shoulder. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

. . .

At that moment, two figures burst through the door of the recording booth and into the hallway. One of them stood up. "It's him!" cried the one on the floor, "He's the one!" A Death Eater dashed out after them and raised his wand to the standing figure. With shaking hands the man removed the mask to reveal a pudgy radio announcer with a gag in his mouth. To the Death Eater's credit, he managed to turn fully around before V's knife found its way into his chest. V walked passed the new corpse and tipped his hat politely to the terrified announcer. "There truly is no business like show business, my friend." Said V.

He walked through the halls back to the lobby. He was about to leave when a Death Eater popped up behind the guard's desk. "Freeze!"

V sighed and put his hands in the air. "I must say," he said turning around to face his opponent's wand, "Your response time was impressive, even for apparating."

"Yeah," said the Death Eater, "We got damn lucky."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."

Evey spun out from behind a pillar, her wand raised. "Expelliarmus!" The Death Eater's wand flew out of his hand and he turned, fists raised. Before Evey could move, the Death Eater delivered a vicious uppercut to her chin, knocking her senseless immediately. V lazily tossed a knife in the Death Eater's back while he was distracted.

Without a word, V turned back to the door and put his hand on it. For a moment, he hesitated. After a while, he looked back at an unconscious Evey with a sigh. "There are no coincidences." He told himself, walking back to her.

. . .

The blonde woman held her wand to the wires, swinging back and forth between the green and red wires. "Oh, bloody hell." She muttered, "Diffindo!" the red wire tore in two and the count down stopped. Finch wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as the woman stared up at him triumphantly.

Hours later, Finch paced through the lobby. The corpses had been removed, the public assured, and most of the staff of the Prophet accounted for. So what was bothering him? Was it the woman? Evey Hammond? She had been missing at the last headcount and nobody knew where she was. Did the terrorist take her hostage?

Finch sighed and looked up at the door to the Prophet. There was one thing he had requested not be cleaned until later. On the glass door, a large letter V was written with the blood of the Death Eater killed in the lobby. Finch ran his fingers over the blood and watched it smear over his skin. For better or worse, Evey Hammond was stuck with this V character.

. . .

Review!

I just re-uploaded this chapter. Sorry I made so many spelling mistakes. And cannon mistakes.


	3. The Shadow Gallery

Same disclaimers as before

Chapter 3: The Shadow Gallery

Evey woke up in a room filled to the brim with books. She was on a soft, queen-sized bed with red sheets. She quickly glanced down at her self and was relieved to see that she was still wearing her work clothes. Immediately, what she had done came back to her and she put her hands over her head. "What've I done?" she whispered. She shook violently as she slowly got out of the bed.

She took a quick look around at the books piled in stacks all around her. She took one at random and looked it over. "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them?" she dropped the book and took another. "Quidditch Through the Ages?" She put the book down and massaged her head. "What the hell is going on?" she groaned to herself

Evey looked over to the other side of the room and saw a wooden door. She quickly dodged around a pile of books and exited the room. She found herself in a long hallway. The walls were made of some kind of beige stone, it reminded her a lot of Hogwarts. Was she at Hogwarts?

From down the hall, Evey heard light music playing. Carefully and slowly, she followed her ear down the hallway. Lining the walls were dozens of paintings, some of them moving, others still. A set of black armor stood at the end of the hall, its arm raised to the left, pointing Evey into a second passage. Lamps lit the way for her as she passed magnificent masks and pictures, pieces of antique furniture and ancient relics. She felt a vague magical aura from some of them, but just as many seemed to be nothing more than old work of art from the muggle world.

As she grew closer to the source of the sound, Evey realized it was a slow jazz song. "Thought you were through with me," sang a woman, "And now you say you love me." Evey stepped out of the passage into a veritable museum. Each part of every wall in the room was covered in art. The floors held rich rugs and tables around the room held artifacts and other artworks. Bookshelves held everything from lamps to potion vials. In the corner, an old jukebox machine was playing the music. "Well, just to prove you do," it sang, "Why don't you cry me a river? Cry me a river. I cried a river over you." Evey wandered through the room, but stopped at the jukebox. She ran a hand over the song list and read it with interest.

The room suddenly felt a bit colder and Evey looked behind her. She jumped when she saw the stark black uniform and white mask of V only a few feet behind her, watching her with narrow, black eyes. "You scared me." She muttered, collecting herself angrily.

"Oh? My apologies, are you feeling alright?" V asked with a slight bow.

Evey leaned against the juke box. "Um, yes thank you." She looked around, "What is this place?"

V rocked on his heels. "It is my home. I call it the Shadow Gallery."

"It's…beautiful," said Evey. She meant it too. It was a lovely combination of art from her wizarding world and her parents' muggle world. "Where did you get all this?"

"Oh, here and there," said V vaguely. He walked around a grand piano and sat at the bench. "A friend of mine helped smuggle some of it from Hogwarts, but most of it is banned art, blacklisted by the New Order. I procured a fair number of items from the Department of Mysteries. Oh, and much of comes from the Vaults of the Department of Objectionable Materials."

Evey stared at him. "You stole it? You stole from the ministry?"

V chuckled under his mask. "Heavens no! Stealing implies ownership; you can't steal something from someone it does not belong to. No, I prefer the term liberated. I liberated these items from those who would see them covered in darkness and dust until they rotted away, both in form and in memory."

"If they ever find this place…" Evey let the statement hang.

"If they ever find this place," said V dryly, "Then a few bits of art will be the least of my worries."

Evey groaned and fell to the ground. She slid up against the juke box and put her head between her knees. "God, I disarmed that officer. Why did I do that?"

"You did what you thought was right." Said V. "How old are you, Evey?"

"22."

"Then you are old enough to remember the first war between the good wizards and witches of England and the terrorist Voldemort?"

Evey's head shot out from between her legs, her eyes wide. "You speak his name?"

V waved a hand inconsequentially. "Fearing a name only increases your fear of the thing itself. A name is just a name, Evey, and Voldemort isn't even his real name."

Evey's jaw dropped, but she quickly closed it and stared at V. "Um, I don't really remember the war. I was just a little girl, and my magic was just starting to develop."

"I see." For a moment, they sat together in silence.

Finally, Evey stood up. "I think I should go."

"May I ask where?"

Evey started to walk towards the hallway she'd come in from. "Home. I have to go home."

"That guard saw you, Evey," said V, getting up from the bench, "He could identify you. If he can identify you, he can find out where you live. If he finds out where you live, then your home is no longer safe. Not to mention by now your heritage has likely come to light."

"I have friends," said Evey. She stopped walking away and turned to V. "I can stay with them."

"I'm afraid that won't work either." Said V with a shake of his head, "Your status has likely risen to the level of Undesirable. Anyone caught associating with you will be questioned and their family trees search." He sighed and walked forwards towards her. "You must understand, I didn't want this for either of us, but I simply could not see another way. If I'd left you there, unconscious, you'd be in one of Yaxley's interrogation rooms right now. You'd be imprisoned, tortured, and, in all probability, kill you in pursuit of finding me."

Evey regarded him warily. "After what you did for me, I couldn't just leave you, so I brought you here, to my Shadow Gallery."

"I won't tell anyone," said Evey, her face paling as the penny dropped. She understood what V was saying now. "I swear I won't tell. You know you can trust me."

V hung his head slightly. "I'm sorry, but I can't take that risk."

"But I don't even know where we are!" protested Evey, "We could be anywhere!"

"You know it's underground," said V sadly, "You know the color of the stones. To a good detective, that's enough to find me."

"So…I have to stay here?" Evey whispered in horror.

"Only until I'm finished," Said V, "After the second of May, I hardly think it will matter."

"May? I have to stay here seven whole months?"

V stepped forward another step. "I'm sorry, Evey." Evey didn't reply. Instead, she drew her wand from her back pocket. V didn't flinch as she raised it at him.

"Release me!" she hissed.

"I'm very sorry, but I can't do that."

"Rictusempra!" cried Evey, slashing her wand through the air. The tickling charm hit V square in the chest, but he simply sighed and walked back to the piano. Evey shook her head in confusion and raised her wand again. "Stupefy!" The red jet of sparks again met its mark, but V sat down calmly behind the piano and began to play an unfamiliar melody.

"I'm afraid magic doesn't quite work on me, Evey." He said without looking up from his fingers."

Evey dropped her wand with a clatter. "What are you?" she whispered. V didn't look up, content to play his music. Evey ran back through the hallways to her room and slammed the door shut behind her. A stack of books toppled over from the force, but she ignored it and crawled into her bed.

. . .

"You're not going to believe this." Finch was leafing through the files on Evey Hammond, his eyes wide.

His partner, Dominic, glanced up from his files and paperwork. "What?"

"The girl's parents," Finch handed over two pictures of a happy looking couple, "They're muggles."

Dominic looked up, his attention fully grabbed. "And nobody handed her in?"

Finch rolled his eyes and leaned back from his desk. "There are thousands of wizards in London alone, Dominic; it's difficult to search the family tree of every single one of them."

"Fair."

"It gets better," continued Finch, "It appears she had a brother too. They were all out one day a few years back when they saw two wizards fighting in the street."

"Wizards?" exclaimed Dominic, "Dueling in public?"

"Indeed. Do the names Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew ring any bells?"

Dominic stared at Finch. "No way."

"Way," said Finch with a nod, "Pettigrew blew up an entire street, killing twelve muggles. The parents and brother were three of them."

"Nothing but bad luck here." Muttered Dominic.

Finch spun around in his chair. The far wall held a tack board where blown up pictures of V were pinned up. In each one, V simply stared back at Finch, capable of moving, but unwilling, his Guy Fawkes mask chillingly unreadable. "We know her story," murmured Finch, half to himself, "What's his?"

. . .

The strains of 'Girl from Ipanema' wafted through the air like a bird. It was followed by the smoky scent of bacon. Evey loved bacon. Slowly, she slipped out of her bed. She hadn't left the room in a few days and was both hungry and dirty. She carefully traced her steps back through the hallways to the Shadow Gallery.

She saw in the far corner of the gallery, a small kitchenette where V, wearing a very out of character pink floral apron, was gently turning over a tray of bacon while humming along to the song on the juke box.

"V?"

The man turned to her, absentmindedly scrubbing away at the bacon. "Ah! Bonjour madam!" he greeted her kindly.

Evey rubbed her arm in embarrassment. "I wanted to apologize for my reaction the other day. I know you need to keep me here, and I'm sorry I tried to curse you." V stopped messing with the bacon and turned to give Evey his full attention. Before he could reply, however, she caught sight of his bare hands. "God," she whispered, "Your hands." They were red and blistered. Each vein protruded over scorched and gaunt flesh.

V looked down at his hands in surprise. "Ah, yes," he said to himself. He quickly turned and grabbed his glove from the counter, slipping them on quickly. "There," he turned back to Evey brightly, "That's better. I hope I didn't put you off your appetite, I would love for you to join me."

Evey blinked and pulled her eyes away from his now-covered hands. "No, no, I'd love to eat. It's just…are you alright?"

V turned back to his bacon. He scrapped it off the tray and laid it on a plate to cool, while simultaneously throwing another dozen slabs onto the hot cooking surface. "Yes, yes, yes," he said, waving away the question, "Quite fine."

Evey hesitated. "May I ask what happened?"

V paused, his hands steady and still over the bacon. "There was a fire," he said eventually, "Some time ago. Ancient history for some, but quite recent for others. Not good table conversation really. Now, how would you like your eggs?"

"Sunny side up, please." It took V a few minutes to finish with the bacon and start making a few eggs in a pan. Evey helped herself to a seat at the small card table that V seemed to be using as a dinner setting.

"Would you like tea with breakfast?" he asked.

"Yes, earl grey if you have it." V put her eggs and a dozen crispy bacon strips on a plate and placed it in front of her with familiar silverware.

Evey examined the fork. "Is this from Hogwarts?"

V chuckled. "When I smuggled out some of the portraits, I managed to grab a few other items as well, a bit of a challenge to the Death Eaters stationed there." Evey grinned despite herself while V poured her tea.

Finally, the two sat opposite each other at the table with Evey's meal prepared. Evey wasted no time and dug into her eggs. "Mmm," she sighed happily, "This is delicious."

"Why thank you," said V courteously, "My mother used to make them for me all the time." He muttered something under his breath and chuckled to himself. Evey gave him a questioning look and he cleared his throat. "It's nothing."

"Why aren't you eating?"

V turned his head to the side. "I'm afraid I don't eat much these days. Poor digestion, you see."

Evey took another bit of egg followed by her scarfing down two bacon strips. "Good lord!" she whispered, "How did you do this?"

"Oh, I sprinkled a little bit of shredded dragon scale. From a Norwegian Ridgeback if I remember correctly."

Evey's jaw fell open so fast and suddenly, her food threatened to fall out. "Where the hell did you get that!" she whispered in awe, "Nobody's been able to get that since-"

"Since the minister declared it a Class A Non-Tradable Item last August." Finished V, "Yes, I'm well aware. I stole it from a supply train on its way to his hidden bunker."

"You stole from the Minister of Magic?"

V barked a laugh. "Calling Pius Thickness a Minister is a bit of a stretch. He's more puppet than man. Regardless, are you really surprised that, after robbing the Ministry of some of its darkest secrets and most desirable objects, I would be afraid to steal some condiments?"

Evey stared at him, slowly taking another bite of bacon. "You're insane," she said around the food.

V gave a half shrug. "I dare do all that may become a man, who dares more is none."

Evey swallowed her bacon and smiled. "Macbeth."

V gave her a proud nod. "Very good."

Evey turned back to her plate. "My mum used to teach Shakespeare at York. She used to read his plays to my brother and I at bedtime. It made we want to act, be a performer. Unfortunately, Hogwarts didn't have much of a theater program. Every few years they'd do a holiday pageant, of course I don't need to tell you that, you went there. One year we did a production of Twelfth Night and I played Viola. Mum wanted to come up and watch, but, you know, no muggles allowed." Evey finished her plate and dabbed her mouth with a cloth napkin. "Still, she was very proud."

"Where is your mother now?"

Evey glanced at her empty plate. "She's dead."

"I'm sorry"

There was an awkward pause. Then, Evey stood and took her plate to the sink. "Can I ask about what you said on the telly?"

"Yes?"

Evey turned to look him in the mask. Even when she stared directly into his eyeholes, they were to narrow and too dark to see his eyes behind. "Did you mean it?"

"Every word."

"You really think destroying the ministry is going to make this world a better place?"

V laughed. "Hardly, I know full well that the Ministry can operate adequately enough without its central building. Besides, the true power no longer resides in the Ministry itself."

Evey hesitated. "You know that if anyone shows up on May second, they'll be executed, every one of them."

"People shouldn't be afraid of their governments," V said with a sense of finality, "Governments should be afraid of their people."

"And you're going to make that happen by blowing up a building?"

V rubbed his hands together. "The building is a symbol, as is the act of destroying it. Symbols are given power by people. Alone, a symbol is meaningless, but with enough people, blowing up a building can change the world."

Evey sighed. "I wish I could believe that, V."

"Do believe it!" V exclaimed, "Just the other night I destroyed the Old Bailey, and less than 24 hours later, your government censored office was in chaos. Why? Because I destroyed a building."

Evey sat down at the table. "I guess…I guess every time I've seen this world change, it was always for the worse."

. . .

I had to change the last chapter to fit it into both the V for Vendetta and Harry Potter cannons.

Review!

Also, I know who V really is, but I'm wondering if it would be sacrilegious to reveal him at the end of the story.


	4. The Rise and Fall of Lewis Prothero

Same disclaimers as before.

Chapter 4: The Rise and Fall of Lewis Prothero

"I'll tell you what I know," barked Prothero into the microphone, "I know this is not a wizard we're dealing with here." He had been moved to Booth 5 for safety concerns after the terrorist known only as V had hijacked the Daily Prophet's radio station from his spacious and luxurious Booth 3. Booth 5 was tight and cramped. It was generally reserved for news stories of little value or interest. In Prothero's opinion, putting the voice of the new Ministry of Magic in such a confining space was nothing less than criminal. But he wasn't on air to discuss his new arrangements; he was there to discuss the terrorist.

"A wizard does not threaten innocents! A wizard does not put others in harms way! No, good wizards and witches of England, what we are dealing with here is a treacherous, conniving, magic-stealing mudblood!" In his mind, Prothero could here the screams and cries of support from his loyal fans across the country. "Yes! Though we don't yet know the true identity of this 'V', I can personally assure the public, on my honor as a news reporter, that he stole his magic from some poor, deserving wizard." Lewis leaned into the microphone and spoke softly, almost seductively to his audience. "That's what they are, folks. Every mudblood freak among us is nothing more than a cowardly thief with counterfeit magic." He paused a moment to let that sink in before he began anew.

"I tell you what I wish," he said, "I wish I'd been there. I wish I'd had the chance for a face to face. Just one chance; that's all I'd need." Outside his booth, he could see the radio director move his wand across his neck, signaling Prothero to wrap it up. "I must leave you now, listeners," Prothero said, "But remember; we have nothing to fear from this mudblood. England prevails!" The 'on air' light switched off and Prothero walked briskly out of the booth. "It's like a goddamn oven in there!" he snarled as his assistant followed him towards his office, "Thank God for my girls. Without them, this job can be downright unbearable. Remember that, lad." He barked to his assistant, "Always keep some women nearby to keep you relaxed. Otherwise, you go mad from the pressure." He yanked open the door to his office, fully prepared to dive into a sea of private areas and secret pleasures. However, for the first time in months, Prothero's office was empty, no laced up showgirls were waiting for him. He stared into the room, not entirely able to process what he was seeing.

"Roger," he said slowly, "Where are my girls?"

His assistant gulped. "Th-they all quit, sir," he stuttered, "Th-they didn't f-feel

safe here."

Prothero stared at the room and growled. "For the love of Christ!" he muttered, storming off.

. . .

Hours later, Prothero was in his bathroom. It was a large room, the size of his old Slytherin dormitory. He was shaving in front of a mirror that stretched across an entire wall. In the corner, a large, ornate radio was playing a repeat of his earlier broadcast. As he listened to his own voice, Prothero grumbled to himself. "Note to self;" he said, "Fire the sound mixer. He makes me sound like a whiny brat." He put down his razor and rubbed his face, feeling the newly smoothed skin. With a wave of his wand, he turned on his shower. Water poured from the ceiling and he dropped his wand in the sink as he stepped under the spell-driven shower. His latest show wrapped up and a show from a few weeks ago began. Prothero rubbed himself with a bar of soap and spoke along with his own voice.

"Undesirable Number 1 is still at large, the avaricious, lying bastard. If were up to him, we'd all bow down to the mudblood thieves! And now, news is coming in that he is still being supported by the so-called Order of the Phoenix! Traitors not only to their family and friends, but the God-fearing nation of England! Even with our glorious New Order in power, they insist on spouting their message of hate. No mercy, I say good listeners, no-" the radio shut off abruptly. Prothero turned and saw that it had fallen on the floor.

The lights flickered and went out, leaving Prothero in the dark. "Is someone there?" he called, "This is a private residence! Get out before I call the Snatchers!"

"No." It was one word, but it made Prothero's heart skip. The voice was cold and unforgiving.

"Who are you?" demanded Prothero, grabbing in the dark for his wand.

"There was something you said on your show last week that I rather enjoyed, Mr. Prothero," said the voice. It seemed to come from every corner of the dark room. Prothero stumbled towards the sink and began searching the whole wall for it. "'Good guys win, bad guys lose, and as always, England prevails.'" Mused the voice, "An admirable statement. But it got me thinking; what if the lines between good and bad are blurred? What if someone was to, oh, say for example, blow up the Old Bailey? Would they be justified in the eyes of the people if they knew that he was doing a good thing?"

"Shut up," whispered Prothero. Finally, he found the sink. He fumbled for a moment with his wand before grasping it and spinning around. "Lumos!" the room was enlightened by the tip of his wand. He turned back and forth, but found that he was completely alone in the bathroom.

"What if the people knew that he was giving his enemies a chance?" said the voice. Prothero rounded and stared at the radio on the ground. It was face down over a drain, letting the voice seep through every connected line in the apartment. "That he was destroying the Old Bailey in the same way that a hunter puts a dying animal out of its misery. What would the people think then, Mr. Prothero?"

"What I tell them to think!" shouted Prothero at the radio

"And therein lies the problem," said the voice with a sigh as Prothero knelt down and righted the overturned radio, "You know, what I really liked about what you said was how you said it. It was the exact same tone of voice that you used the last time we spoke."

Prothero stood and readied his wand to destroy the radio. "You do remember me, don't you, Mr. Prothero? You wore a hood and mask then, but I doubt it impeded your vision."

"Incendio!" shouted Prothero. The radio burst into red and gold flames.

"You don't remember me, Mr. Prothero?" the voice continued, "I was at Larkhill." The speakers exploded from the flames. At the same time, the door to the room opened and Prothero turned to see a black cloaked figure with a white mask. Before he could react, the figure lazily tossed a knife at him, slicing his wand into two clean pieces. Prothero dropped the half he held as he stared at V.

"You," he whispered. Images flashed though his mind; a black-bagged prisoner writhing in pain, the archway to the Larkhill facility, a massive fire with a shadowy outline of a man walking through it. "It's you, isn't it."

V leaned down. Prothero had a feeling that the smile on his mask was being reciprocated underneath it. "The ghost of Christmas past." Said V.

. . .

Finch was dreaming. He was on a beach somewhere with the sun raining delightful rays upon his skin. At his side was a lovely, bikini-clad woman.

"How are you, dearie?" she asked, gently rubbing his arm.

"Just peachy, love," he said, "Can I get you anything?"

"Actually yes, can you get me some explosives, darling? I need to blow up the Old Bailey tomorrow." Finch turned and saw that the woman's face was covered with a smiling Guy Fawkes mask.

He awoke with a groan.

"Finch!" Finch started and sat upright in bed, staring into the dying fire in the fireplace across the room. Dominic's face was coming out of the fire, a serious look on his face.

Finch rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Jesus, Dominic, what is it?"

"Lewis Prothero is dead."

Finch stared at him. "No he isn't. I listened to him this afternoon."

"Well, he's dead now, Finch."

"Let me get dressed. Then he can be dead."

. . .

Finch stared at the corpse. Prothero was fatter in person. Finch had always imagined an intimidating man of stature behind the microphone, but instead there was just a flab of a man. A single red rose was placed delicately across his chest.

Patricia, the woman from the Daily Prophet stood next to Finch as he examined the body. "Prime Minister Thickness agrees that we should keep this quiet. We have to maintain control of the situation." Finch grunted in reply. "The loss of the voice of the ministry could be devastating for the New Order is taken in the wrong context."

"You can't just pretend he didn't die," Finch pointed out, "His listeners will wonder where his new material is if you keep playing reruns."

Patricia sighed. "A stroke perhaps? No, to tragic." She thought for a moment. "A quiet, dignified death in his sleep. Yes, that'll do."

Finch crouched down next to the bloody body. "We'll take him in for an autopsy, but with no weapon and multiple stab wounds, I think we can safely rule out a suicide. Until further notice, we're calling this a murder."

Dominic walked up besides him. "Some kind of blade killed him, so the killer must have gotten in close. But this building is under the protection of Ministry Aurors and Snatchers. How did the killer get in?"

Patricia snorted. "I can answer that one. Neighbors and Aurors say they saw a woman matching the description of Evey Hammond come into the building and go into the apartment. They all assumed she was just another one of his prostitutes."

Dominic stared at the body. "So Evey Hammond did this?"

"No," said Finch, rising to his feet, "Hammond is maybe 50 kilos. Even with a wand and a blade, I doubt she could have overpowered Prothero. No, this was the work of someone stronger, someone who knew what they were doing." Finch pointed to the floor besides Prothero. The two pieces of his wand were laid out neatly in the shape of a V, set over a small circle of blood.

Dominic rubbed his chin. "So, V holds Evey Hammond hostage, uses her hair for Polyjuice Potion and takes her form to sneak into Lewis Prothero's apartment and then kills him?"

"Something like that."

"She's in deep."

Patricia grunted angrily. She checked her watch and sighed. "Damn. Why did he have to live here?" Finch raised his eyebrow questioningly. "There are muggles here who knew Prothero," she explained, "We'll have to feed our statements to the muggles as well."

. . .

Evey awoke to the sound of fighting. "V?" she whimpered, flinging herself out of bed. She dodged nimbly around books and artworks as she ran into the Shadow Gallery. There, V was engaged in a violent fight to the death with a stationary set of armor. He twirled a thin rapier, leaving scratches and dents in the old, albeit well-preserved, armor.

"Ha!" cried V energetically, "En guard, my fat metal friend!" As Evey turned and saw an old, black-and-white movie playing on the nearby telly. It was a fight scene with invigorating music perfect for battle. V drew in close to the armor and lifted its hand up to grab him by the neck as he faked being choked. Evey watched as he threw himself backwards and spun his sword, beheading the poor, innocent armor.

"Bravo." She said.

V turned and lowered his sword sheepishly. "Oh, uh, I hope I didn't wake you."

"No, I just thought you were fighting. For real, I mean."

V lifted his rapier and pointed at the telly. "My favorite film, _the Count of Monte Cristo_ with Robert Donat as Edmond Dantes. It's not my sword, Mondego, but your past that disarmed you." He said along with the actor. "Oh," he sighed, "It gets me every time."

"Never seen it."

"Really?" exclaimed V, "Would you like to?"

Evey arched her eyebrow. "Does it have a happy ending?"

"As only cinema can deliver."

"Alright then," she said, "But put the sword away first."

. . .

Dominic walked into Finch's office. "No magical residue was left behind at the scene." He grumbled, "No sign of anything that could be used to track V. The man's a bloody ghost, except even the ghosts in the Tower don't know who he is." The ghosts of the Tower of London were notoriously chatty since their demise, and they tended to know a great many things. Dominic plopped himself down in his chair with a sigh. "You wouldn't believe what we got on Prothero, though."

Finch glanced up from the file he was reading. "Illegal contraband?"

Dominic nodded. "Stolen dragon blood, fake Felix Felicis, even some unicorn bones. Could've started his own smuggling ring. How'd you know?"

Finch put down the file. "Did you know that before he became the voice of the New Order, Prothero was one of the richest men in both the wizard and muggle worlds?"

"More contraband?"

"Legal trading. Investments and the like. He traded mostly in magical enhancements."

"Magical enhancements."

"Yeah, they were all the rage a few years back during the first war. Little trinkets or tattoos you could get that would boost your magic or make you immune to curses or such. They were utter rubbish for the most part, but enough people swore by them to make it a fairly prosperous business. At the very least it was lucrative for Prothero. Here." Finch handed over a photograph that showed a younger, slimmer Prothero shaking hands with a tall blonde man.

"Is that who I think it is?"

"Yep. Lucius Malfoy. After Prothero got rich, he started hanging out with Malfoy's crowd and eventually landed himself a cushy job in radio with his new connections."

"So?"

Finch leaned back in his chair. "So at what point did he piss off V? And at what point did V decide he wanted vengeance, paid in full?"

Dominic looked up at him. "You think this was personal?"

"There are no coincidences, Dominic. Until we know for sure what V's planning, we have to assume that everything he does is to fulfill some kind of vendetta."

. . .

"You find your own tree." Said V with a happy sigh as the film ended. He turned to Evey. "Did you like it?"

"Yes," she said with a slight snivel, "But it made me feel sorry for Mercedes."

"Why?"

"Because," Evey turned to look at V, "Dantes cared more about revenge than he did for her." The movie's end credits wrapped up and the film player turned off. As it did, the telly turned to a muggle news station.

"And in other news," said the female anchor, "A London man was found dead in his apartment last night." V moved to turn off the telly, but Evey raised her hand to stop him. "Lewis Prothero was suffocated by a gas leak in his sleep."

Evey stared at the screen. "Lewis Prothero?" she whispered, "Dead?" She turned off the television and slowly stood up. "V?" she said, "The other day I was in the bathroom and I noticed I was missing a lock of hair." She hesitated. "You didn't cut my hair, did you?"

V sat motionless on the couch. "Would you prefer a lie or the truth?"

Evey stared at him. "Did…did you have anything to do with…with _that_?" she pointed to the black screen.

"Yes," said V as if he were discussing the weather, "I killed him."

"Oh," Evey murmured, "Oh God."

"You seem upset."

"Upset? You just told me you killed Lewis Prothero!"

V shrugged. "I may have killed the Snatchers that attacked you, but I heard no objection then."

Evey stared at him, her eyes wide and her fists clenched. "What? But…" she struggled to find the words she was looking for. Hell, she was trying to find out how she felt about all this.

"Violence can be used for good," said V, crossing his legs.

"What are you talking about?" whispered Evey, sinking to her knees.

"Justice," said V simply.

"Oh." Evey whispered, barely audible to even herself.

"There's no room in this country for men like Prothero." Said V with a slight yawn.

Evey hesitated. "And…are you going to kill more people?"

V turned to her and folded his hands over his lap. "Yes."

. . .

Please review! Pretty please with Guy Fawkes masks on top!


	5. The Perverted Priest

Same disclaimers as before.

Chapter 5: The Perverted Priest

Finch walked briskly down the hallway, two manila folders tucked under his arm. The black marble halls of the Ministry of Magic echoed with his footsteps. It was quieter now under the new regime. People still milled about doing their jobs, but they declined socialization and there were far, far fewer workers than there had been before the summer.

Finch took a left into a lift. Normally, they would be hard to catch and filled to the brim with all manner of sorceries. Now, however, there was just a nervous young doorman who quickly jabbed the button for the Auror Department. The doors slid closed and the lift jerked backwards.

Finch glanced at the doorman. "Morning," he said.

The doorman breathed heavily. "Here," he took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Finch.

"What's this then?"

"My family tree, sir," said the doorman, rubbing his wrists nervously, "I'm the son of Myrtle Blackweather and Joseph Jones. I-I know me dad's a muggle, but me mum's a witch through and through! I-I didn't steal me magic!" The lift halted with a shudder and the doors clicked open. Finch sighed; he didn't have the time, patience, or will to search the poor man's family tree for any errors at that time. He handed the paper back to a grateful doorman and walked away.

He quickly found the office he was looking for and banged on the door. "Come in," said a sickly sweet voice from beyond. Finch sighed; at least she didn't have that gruesome eyeball anymore. Undesirable Number 1 had taken it when he had secretly infiltrated the ministry in September.

Finch stepped into the pink office. "Morning ma'am."

"Good morning, Mr. Finch," said Delores Umbridge with a wide grin, "What can I do for you today?" Finch helped himself to a seat across her desk. Her walls were lined with pictures of cats, all of which snarled at him. Finch ignored them as he slapped a folder on Umbridge's desk.

"I've been digging through files on Lewis Prothero all night," he explained, "Came up with this at two in the morning."

Delores opened the file and took out a report. "This report denotes upon Lewis Prothero the duties, rights, and powers of an Auror," she glanced up at Finch, "What is this?"

"It's an order from Minister Thicknesse. It deputizes Lewis Prothero as an honorary Auror. It was rescinded a week after it was issued."

Delores smiled. "I can see that, dear."

"Of course, ma'am," said Finch, "But this is what I came to see you about." He handed her the other file. Delores took it, but didn't read it aloud.

"This seems to be in order," she said finally, "It's just a report the late Mr. Prothero filed concerning one of our research facilities. It all makes sense, Mr. Finch," she explained, "Minister Thicknesse must have wanted some publicity so he made Mr. Prothero an honorary Auror so the minister could show off the humane and helpful research being done at," she checked the sheet again, "Larkhill. Yes, that must be it. Lewis Prothero would never tell a lie on his show so he must have wanted to see the research that proves that mudbloods are thieves of magic for himself."

Finch nodded. "Well that's just the thing ma'am," he said, "What's Larkhill?"

"It's one of our new research facilities, of course."

"According to that file," said Finch, leaning forward in his chair, "But I've already spoken with the head of the Department of Mysteries and the head of the Department of Magical Research and Development, but they both claim never to have heard of this Larkhill place."

"Hmm," tittered Delores, "How strange."

Finch hesitated, but he decided to press on. "Ms. Umbridge," he said quietly, "You represent the upper echelon of the Ministry's New Order. I understand if you have to keep secrets of state, but this is a matter of national defense. So I must ask you," he took a breath, "Was there a research facility called Larkhill and what experiments were performed there?"

Delores thought for a moment. "I'm afraid I cannot recall a facility under that name." she said brightly, "Perhaps if you look in the records department-"

"I've been through the records," Finch said with a sigh, "This is the only mention of Larkhill in the entire ministry."

"Well there you have it then, Mr. Finch," she said, a new, hard edge present in her spritely voice, "It would appear that there was such a facility."

"Ma'am," said Finch, running his hand through his hair, "Did you know if there was anything different about this facility?"

"I told you, Mr. Finch, I simply cannot recall. Perhaps if you look in the records again-"

"Your records," snapped Finch, "Are deleted, omitted, or missing." He stood up and shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked out of the room. "Larkhill," he muttered to himself as he stormed down the hall, "What the bloody hell were you?"

. . .

Evey stared up at the mirror. It was a tall thing made of solid bronze with a gold inlay and a gilded frame. Above her reflection, a motto was emblazoned into the metal. "Vi veri veniversum vivus vici," she read to herself.

"By the power of truth," she looked up and saw V in the mirror standing behind her, his arms folded behind his back, "I, while living, have conquered the universe."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "A personal motto?"

"From Faust."

"Faust. That's about trying to cheat the devil, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Evey turned to the next mirror. "What does this one mean? What's Erised?"

V hesitated, considering what to do, but he knew it wouldn't matter. Evey looked at the mirror and gasped. Standing behind her were her parents, looking down at her with pride. At her feet was her younger brother. "How?" she whispered, "What?"

"The Mirror of Erised," said V with a sigh, "It shows you with what your heart truly desires. I've been meaning to move it; the thing can be quite addicting."

Evey gently touched the glass. "It's wonderful."

"It is a lie."

"Perhaps," said Evey. She pressed her forehead against the side of the mirror. "But it's a good lie." She hummed contentedly. "My father was a writer. You would have liked him. He used to say that artists use lies to tell the truth while politicians use them to cover the truth up."

"A man after my own heart."

"He always told the best stories. Sometimes mum would come into our room to act out the stories with him."

"Our room?"

"My brother and I had to share. We lived in a pretty small flat." She hesitated and placed her palm flat on the mirror. In her reflection, her mother reciprocated the movement. "They died when I was pretty young. They said it was a gas explosion, but I later found out it was two wizards dueling in public. You remember Sirius Black?"

"I'm sorry, Evey."

"Everyone thought it was him. Then almost fifteen years later they said, no it was th other wizard. At that point, I didn't care. I'd been living in an orphanage since they died. When I got my Hogwarts letter, I thought it was some cruel trick until Professor McGonagall came to see me. You remember Professor McGonagall, don't you?" Evey giggled. "What am I saying, of course you do. You probably were only a few years ahead of me." V didn't say anything. Evey's smile faded as she watched her family. "You're right," she decided with a sad sigh, "It is a lie." She turned away from the mirror and V nodded with approval. She hesitated, but knew that the world she lived in had made her decision for her. "V?"

"Yes, Evey?"

She took a deep breath. "I've decided that…that I want to help you." V turned his head to the side. "In this revolution, I mean. If there's anything I can do to help, you'll tell me, right?"

V hesitated. "If you wish."

. . .

"Here you are, Mr. Finch," whispered the Unspeakable, one of the many workers in the Department of Mysteries, "This is everything we have on Larkill."

"Of course," muttered Finch, "The only reliable records are the tax records. Thanks, this is an enormous help." He took the red file and walked off.

. . .

Evey was in her room reading a book. Faust to be specific. There was a knock on the door and she put the book down. "Come in."

V entered the room. "I see our conversation the other day left you inspired." He said, nodding to her book.

Evey shrugged. "I was interested to see just how a man planned to cheat the devil."

"Speaking of which," V rocked on his heels, "I was wondering if your offer to help is still standing?"

Evey looked up, her eyes wide with hope. "Of course!"

"It seems unforeseen circumstances have accelerated my original plan," said V, "As a result, I'm in need of a thespian of some craft."

"I'll do my best!" Evey said earnestly.

"I believe you will," said V, walking out of her room, "I believe you will."

. . .

"Another strange request for someone to visit Larkhill," muttered Dominic, "What were they doing that required so many high-profile visitors?" Finch sifted through loose files until he came across one that caught his eye.

"No idea," he replied, "But this is interesting; the highest paid person at the facility was a priest."

"Really?"

"Yeah, a Father Lilliman. Paid him almost 200,000 Galleons a month."

Dominic leaned back in his chair. "Interesting. What did they need a priest for anyway?"

Finch shrugged. "I guess we'll ask him on Sunday."

"What?"

Finch reached into his pocket and handed Dominic a copy of the Daily Prophet. "Page 16, Wizard Priest Made Bishop. Lilliman was promoted a few weeks ago. He's holding a special mass in Westminster's Abbey this Sunday to celebrate."

. . .

Lilliman took a deep, bracing breath as he stared out into the chapel of the world's most famous abbey. In less than twenty-four hours, he would hold the mass of his life. He could already hear the people praising his righteousness and piety.

"I deserve this," he said to himself with a smile, "I've worked so hard to get here." He smiled up at the cross hanging in the middle of the room.

"Your grace?"

Lilliman turned and smiled at his young assistant. "Marty, how many times must I ask you to call me Harold?"

"At least once more, your grace." Said Marty. Lilliman smiled and walked out of the chapel into the abbey itself. Marty followed close behind him.

"Has everything been arranged?" the holy man asked quietly. Neither wizard nor muggle that he preached to knew of his darkest secret; only Marty knew of his lusts.

"Yes, about that, your grace," said Marty, "The girl just arrived and it appears that there was some confusion at the agency. She's considerably…older than your usual guests."

The bishop shot him a glance. "Not too old I hope?"

"No, your grace, still quite young."

Lilliman smiled happily. "Ah good. You are a diligent worker, Marty. An example to all those who serve God. Why don't you take the night off?"

Marty shot him a glance, "But your grace, who will make sure you aren't interrupted?"

Lilliman laughed. "Don't worry. I'll just spread the word that I wish to rest before my big sermon tomorrow and I will be left alone for the rest of the evening."

Marty hesitated but shrugged. "It is your decision, your grace. I'll see you tomorrow then."

"See you tomorrow, Marty," said Lilliman, "God be with you."

As soon as he was out of earshot, Marty scowled. "No, you old perverted wanker," he hissed, "God be with _you_."

Lilliman walked around the abbey thrice, a habit he'd had since he was a boy. It gave him time to think and relax for the temptation he was about to face. By the time he had finished his third lap, the crescent moon was high in the sky over the dark streets of London. "It is time," muttered Lilliman. He composed himself and walked up the stairs to his private quarters. He paused before the double doors to his room, but opened them with an eager smile.

"Oh my," he whispered. Sitting on his bed was a young woman in a lovely white and pink dress. She looked as fragile as a china doll and smelled like fresh roses. She was a bit older than the bishop would have liked, but he didn't care; she was beautiful and she was his for the entire night.

The girl looked up and gasped when she saw him. She quickly stood and gave cute little curtsey. "Y-your grace," she stammered.

Lilliman slowly walked forward, admiring his prize…er, _temptation_ with every step. "To think that I doubted your loveliness for even an instant," he said, "Dios mio, my child, Dios mio."

The young woman glanced at the windows nervously and leaned in closer to him. "Listen to me, your grace," she whispered, "We don't have much time. I have to tell you something."

Lilliman nearly clapped with delight. "Oh, the confession game! I love the confession game! Tell me your sins, my child."

"This isn't a game your grace!" whispered the girl, "Someone's coming here to kill you!"

Lilliman cocked his head to the side. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm telling you this because I want some kind of protection," the girl whispered quickly, her eyes darting towards the window, "Or amnesty, or whatever. I had nothing to do with the Bailey and I made a serious mistake at the station, but if I save you it should balance out."

Lilliman was now thoroughly confused. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm Evey Hammond!" hissed Evey, "I've been the prisoner of the terrorist V for the last few weeks! And I'm telling you that any moment now, he's going to come in through the window and kill you!"

A light bulb went on over Lilliman's head. "Oh, wonderful!" he chuckled, "I've never played this game before!" He looked at Evey hungrily. "What a delightful mind you have." His eyes darted down her dress and back up again. "I only hope the rest of you is just as interesting."

"No! Please!" protested Evey as Lilliman began to rub her leg and move his hand around her waist, "You have to believe me!"

"Oh I do!" said the bishop, grabbing her arms roughly, "Now, let me show you the firmness of my belief in you." He rolled over on top of her and began reaching for his belt.

The window shattered and glass flew through the air like shrapnel. Luckily, the bishop was kneeling over Evey and took the full blast. He howled as the glass embedded itself in his back and he quickly crawled off the bed. "What was-" he looked over at the window and gasped. Standing there was a white Guy Fawkes mask surrounded by a black cloak, the terrorist V.

"Reverend," greeted V, stepping into the room.

"My God," whispered Lilliman in terror, "She wasn't lying." V turned sharply and stared at Evey, now standing besides the bed.

"I'm sorry, V," she said, a single tear running down her face, "I'm sorry." With that, she ran out of the room, V's head following her the whole way. Lilliman took the opportunity to draw his wand.

"Avada Kadavra!" V ducked under the green curse and grabbed the bishop's wrist, twisting it painfully in his vice-like grip. Lilliman screamed in agony and dropped his wand. V stepped on it with a satisfying crunch, breaking it in two.

V pulled the bishop close. "And thus I clothe my naked villainy," he recited, "With old odd ends stolen forth from holy writ and seem a saint when most I play the devil."

"Please!" gasped Lilliman, "Have mercy!"

"I seem to recall asking you the same request," Said V, "Not tonight, Bishop, not tonight."

. . .

Evey ran out into the night street in her frilly dress. She had only just left the abbey and turned a corner when she ran smack into the chests of two burley Snatchers, their badges proudly and stupidly displayed on their lapels.

"V!" she said quickly, "In the abbey! He's going to kill!" The two Snatchers only had to consider it for a moment. Have their way with a clearly insane woman, or catch the infamous terrorist? They ran off at full speed towards the abbey. Evey breathed a sigh of relief and ran off again.

She stopped on a street corner and caught her breath. Now was the opportunity she had been waiting for. She took a breath and focused on the image of a suburban home. With a familiar squeezing sensation, she apparated to the house in question; the home of her childhood friend. She ran too the door and banged on it harshly

"Please!" she shouted, "Tonks! Open up! It's me-" The door opened up and Evey found herself looking into the face of a very tired looking, very familiar old man.

The man peered at her from behind a weathered pair of spectacles. "Evey Hammond? Is that you?"

"Mr. Tonks!" said Evey with relief, "Can I come in?"

"Of course!" said Theodore Tonks, stepping back from the doorway, "Do come in! It's been years! Nymphadora isn't here now, but you're welcome to stay if you like. Would you like some tea?"

. . .

Please review!

_**PLEASE REVIEW!**_


	6. The Doctor's Death

Same disclaimers as before

Chapter 6: The Doctor's Death

Evey and Ted Tonks were sitting in the latter's living room. They sat in an awkward silence until, finally, the tea kettle whistled. Evey, her make-up wiped away and wrapped in a blanket, started to stand up.

"I'll get it, my dear," said Mr. Tonks with a smile, "You stay put." He rose and walked briskly to the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later with twin china cups filled with freshly brewed black tea. "Milk and sugar?"

"A teaspoon of each, please," said Evey gratefully. Mr. Tonks quickly accommodated her before handing her a saucer with her tea cup balanced perfectly on it. She sniffed deeply, letting the heat and scent of the tea calm her. She took a sip and shuddered as the hot liquid spilled down her throat and warmed her body. "Mmm, lovely." She said with a sigh.

Mr. Tonks smiled. "Thank you."

Evey closed her eyes as she remembered her childhood friend. They sat in silence for a bit before Evey addressed the elephant in the room.

"Mr. Tonks, I know every Snatcher and Auror in the country's looking for me and I know it was horrible for me to come here, putting you in this situation."

"Evey," interjected Mr. Tonks, "I-"

"If they find me here, you'll be in terrible trouble."

"Evey," said Mr. Tonks firmly, "First of all, you're a grown woman now. I think you have the right to call me Ted. Secondly," he smiled and sipped his tea, "If Snatchers ever searched my house, you would be the least of my problems." Evey stared at him in confusion. Ted sighed and stood up. "Well, you've trusted me, so it would be terrible manners not for me to trust you. Come, follow me." Evey rose and followed Ted through his house.

He led her to his wine cellar and motioned towards a wonderful rack of several vintage wines. He pulled out a Pino Grigio from 1973. "The year Dora was born," he explained as he reached into the tube the wine bottle had been in, "A wonderful harvest. Made some very detailed flavors. Ah, here we go." He found what he had been looking for and withdrew his arm. As Evey watched with wide eyes, the wine rack slid into the wall and disappeared, revealing a secret room.

It was almost like another Shadow Gallery. The walls were lined with art and books and display cases scattered around the room held artifacts. "I installed it after I sent my Andromeda to France," Ted explained as he closed the wall behind them, "She wouldn't have approved, but I figured it was important to preserve some art and knowledge that the New Order is trying to destroy."

Evey's eyes scanned the room in wonder and they fell upon a framed portrait against the far wall. "Oh God," she whispered, "Is that…?"

"Indeed," said Ted proudly, "The crown of my collection, so to speak." It was a hand-painted portrait of Queen Elizabeth II, but her majesty's face had been replaced by a pale and gaunt one. She had slits for nostrils and here eyes were red and slanted. She had the face of the dark lord Voldemort. Under the portrait was written in big letters 'God Save the Queen!' "The Weasley twins made it before they went underground," said Ted, "Called it their masterpiece."

"The Weasley twins?" asked Evey in a daze.

"Yes, the lads who own Weasley's Wizard Wheezes down in Diagon Alley. No matter how bad I feel, this thing always cheers me up."

Evey tore her eyes away and walked over to an open book on a podium. "What's this?"

"An unabridged copy of A History of Magic," said Ted, "The New Order rewrote it for students. I figured I'd keep a copy so future generations can learn about the true past, not the one the New Order fabricates."

Evey turned to face Ted. "If they found this, any of this-"

"I told you, you'd be the least of my worries," he said calmly, "No, if they ever searched my home, I'd be killed on the spot, most likely."

Evey stared at him. "Why?"

"Well because I'm muggle-born, of course! You see, we're both fugitives in our own way."

"Oh," Evey hesitated, "I'm sorry."

Ted gave her an incredulous look. "Sorry? What for? Sorry that I had parents who loved and supported me all the way to their deathbeds? Sorry that my parents would have loved me regardless if I were muggle-born, pure-blood, or squib? Don't be sorry me, Evey," he said, "Be sorry for the world."

. . .

Finch glared angrily at the corpse. He didn't quite know how to feel about this murder. On one hand, it confirmed his theory that V and his killings were somehow related to the Larkhill magical research facility. On the other hand, if he had figured that out sooner, he probably could have saved the poor bishop that lay dead before him. He turned to Dominic. "Run every name in that file," he said, "I want to know where they are now and their place in the hierarchy at Larkhill. Tonight."

"Yes sir," Dominic turned to leave, but stopped in mid-motion, "Bloody hell," he muttered, "Here comes Yaxley!"

Finch groaned and nodded. "Get going, I'll handle him." Dominic glanced at his superior nervously as he left, scrapping by the new head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "Yaxley," greeted Finch, "What are you doing here?"

Yaxley entered the room, keeping his eyes on the body rather than Finch. "Several prominent members and supporters of the Ministry's New Order have been murdered, Chief Inspector Finch," he replied, "This is no ordinary situation. I requires more," he looked up at Finch, "Than your ordinary attention. The minister ordered my immediate involvement."

Finch glared at Yaxley. Finch was all for the revitalization of government. It had been stagnant under Fudge and Scrimgeour. But the new minister was placing known former Death Eaters into positions of power, and Finch took issue with someone he had been chasing down only years before suddenly becoming his superior commander. "I'm sure the _minister_ ordered you to be here, but it'll be difficult to run an investigation if you're detaining all my witnesses."

"The security of information is paramount," snapped Yaxley, "And I don't think I like your tone." Finch didn't move as Yaxley stepped towards him. The Death Eater stood a few inches shorter than Finch, but his presence was no less intimidating. After a moment, Yaxley stepped to the side to admire the corpse. "In these volatile times, mistakes like the Daily Prophet Radio Station cannot be tolerated. If indeed that was an accident."

Finch glanced at Yaxley. "What does that mean?"

"The terrorist seems to have a rather intimate understanding of our system," said Yaxley, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "The Minister suspects there might be an informer."

Finch decided to drop all pretenses of civility. "Are you saying I'm under surveillance, Yaxley?"

Yaxley turned to him and gave a small smile. "Your family tree has already been reviewed since you're a government employee, but at this time it behooves you to cease any investigation of matters of the past and concentrate on the concerns of our present."

Finch folded his arms behind his back, cocking his head to the side in mock concern. "You mean Larkhill?"

"Next time you have questions, don't bring them to the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister," smirked Yaxley, "Her loyalty is unquestionable."

"But mine is?"

Yaxley sneered, a vicious and unstable look that did not become him. "Your mother was a mudblood, wasn't she?" Finch glowered at Yaxley, one hand slipping into his pocket and grasping his wand. "A pity she died before the New Order," continued Yaxley, "She might have told us how she stole her magic."

"I've been a supporter of the New Order since the beginning of all this!" barked Finch angrily, "Enough!"

Yaxley rested on his heels, smiling that he had struck such a sensitive nerve. "If I were you inspector," he said, walking out of the room, "I'd find the terrorist, as soon as is humanly possible."

. . .

Finch stood across a medical table from the Healer. The St. Mungo's mortuary was actually quite lovely, with white marble walls and gentle magic lights floating around the room. All in all, it was really very relaxing.

The Healer was looking over a clipboard, nodding to herself as she ran down a list with her wand. "I'm sorry, Inspector," she said finally, "We found poison in his system, but nothing magical. All the ingredients used to concoct it can be found and bought in any muggle drugstore."

Finch nodded sadly. He had been hoping for a breakthrough when he noticed that Lilliman had been killed without any signs of the Avada Kedavra, blunt instrument, or stab wound. But if the chemicals that made up the poison were so common, then it would be impossible to track them back to V. "Thanks Delia," he said with a sigh.

Delia put down the clipboard and began taking off her medical gloves as Finch put on his coat. "Any leads on finding this guy?"

Finch sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Honestly? Nothing yet. But perhaps there is something you can help me with."

Delia turned and leaned against the medical table. "What's that?"

"There seems to be a link between V and a magical research facility called Larkhill," explained Finch, "I wouldn't be surprised if they had a few Healers on site to help with the experiments. If you could ask around the hospital and see if anyone here worked at Larkhill, that would be a great help."

Delia nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

Finch gave her a small smile and tipped his hat to her as he left. As soon as he had turned his back, Delia began to perspire. She coved her mouth with her hand in an attempt to hold back the bile building up in her throat. She waited a few minutes before grabbing her things and leaving a few hours before her shift was set to end.

. . .

"Anything?" Asked Finch as he walked into his office.

"You're not going to believe this," muttered Dominic, not looking away from the files spread across the table. "There were a total of a hundred and eighteen employees at Larkhill. Of them, only one is still alive."

Finch's eyes widened and he stood behind Dominic, looking over his shoulder. "Who is it?"

"Don't know," said Dominic, "The file's been censored. All I can find is that she was female and one of the people in charge. After the facility was shut down, she disappeared for weeks until she was caught trying to leave the country. After that, she disappears entirely."

"She changed her name?"

"That's what I'm thinking. I took your advice about tax records and put in a call at the treasury, but I haven't heard back yet."

Finch nodded. "Call them again; I want that name." He paused, "Dominic?"

His assistant looked up. "Yes, sir?"

"Good work." Dominic smiled and picked up the rotary phone on the desk, dialing the number for the treasury. Just as he was about to put in the last number, the phone began to ring. Finch and Dominic looked at each other and Dominic shrugged, putting the phone to his ear.

"Hello, this is Dominic…yes…what? You sure about that?...Alright, thank you." He hung up and Finch stared at him intently. "Dr. Diana Stanton, changed her name to Delia Surridge."

Finch's jaw just about hit the desk. "The coroner? Jesus I was just with her!"

Dominic stood up. "You know where she lives?"

"No."

"Damn, we can't apparate or floo there until we get and address. Let's move."

. . .

It had taken a while for Delia to fall asleep. She had contemplated staying up to greet her killer, but she knew he wouldn't want that. Instead, she had forced herself to sleep with a possum charm. Her night was dreamless, a pity. She had hoped for some nice dream before entering the great abyss.

Her sleep was interrupted by a breeze through her open window. She had closed them before bed. She didn't need to open her eyes to know that she wasn't alone.

"It's you, isn't it." The wind caused her curtains to flutter, letting light fall onto a white Guy Fawkes mask sitting next to her. "You've come to kill me."

"Yes." It was a simple and straightforward answer, the kind of response one expects when discussing traffic.

Delia sighed into her pillow. "Oh, thank God." V hummed, unsure of how this would play out. "I felt guilty," she explained, sitting up in bed, "I thought about killing myself, but I knew one day you'd come for me, and I couldn't bring myself to deny you your vengeance." She sighed and leaned against her headboard. "I didn't know what they would do to you," she said, "Honest."

"What they did to me was only possible because of you," said V softly.

Delia nodded. "I only hoped to change the world," she said more to herself than to V.

"I have not come for what you 'hoped' to do, I've come for what you did." Delia nodded again and then chuckled to herself. "What's so funny?"

"I was given one of your victims to examine today," she explained, "What a coincidence that I would wind up being one myself."

V sat down on the bed next to her and took her hand in his. "There are no coincidences, Delia," he murmured, "Only the illusion of coincidence."

Delia closed her eyes. "You're going to kill me now, aren't you?"

V held up an empty syringe. "I killed you ten minutes ago."

Delia groaned. "No magic. I guess that means that my experiments were ultimately failures."

V rubbed her arm. "Oh, I assure you Delia, they were quite successful."

Her eyes widened and began to tear up. "Really?"

"Yes," replied V as she began to foam at the mouth, "Really."

Delia closed her eyes for the last time. "I suppose it's meaningless to apologize."

"Never," replied V in a whisper.

"I'm so sorry, child," said Delia as she shuffled loose the mortal coil, "I'm so, so sorry."

. . .

The door closed behind Finch as he walked into the offices of the Minister of Magic.

"Hello, Minister," he greeted.

The Minister glared at him. "Report," he said through grit teeth.

Finch cocked an eyebrow. Pius Thicknesse didn't scare him, nor did his ability to fire him. "My assistant and I arrived at the home of Dr. Delia Surridge a.k.a. Dr. Diana Stanton a few minutes after her apparent murder by poison. We scoured the area, but found no trace of the killer. Previous evidence and leads leaves me to believe that this is the work of the terrorist V." He hesitated, he had been told to present the journal he had found as evidence, but he had a sneaking suspicion that if the minister ever got his hands on it, he would never see it again.

"Furthermore," he decided, "We found Dr. Surridge's personal journal of her experience and findings at Larkhill research facility." He placed the red leather journal on the desk of the minister. "It would appear as if the killer wanted us to have it, sir, he wanted us to know his story, or at least a part of it."

"Am I to understand that you have read this document, Inspector?" barked the Minister.

"No sir," Finch lied.

"Has anyone else read it?"

"No sir. I only read the front inside cover which described its contents."

The Minister steepled his fingers. "Then let me make this perfectly clear, Inspector," his face was locked in an angry glower, "The contents of this diary is a matter of national security. It speaks heresy against several prominent supporters of the New Order and is a blatant violation of the Articles of Allegiance. As the truthfulness of the document can not be verified, it could well be an elaborate ploy by the enemy. Any discussion of this book will be seen as an open act of treason, is that understood?"

"Yes sir," Finch had stopped listening some time ago.

"You would do well, Inspector, to put it out of your mind," said the Minister with a yawn, "Now leave me." Finch was only too happy to comply.

It was raining that night. Finch sat on a rocking chair on his balcony, watching the rain fall. His sleep was interrupted by constant thoughts about the journal. He had read it, of course, but he didn't have to.

The journal itself wasn't important. What was important was the vial of strand-like memories stored in the front cover. Finch flipped the vial through his fingers and used his wand to pull his father's old pensive from the depths of his cabinets. It rested gently on his lap and he poured the memory in. It shone with golden light as he mixed it with his wand. Taking a deep breath, he plunged his head forward, breaking the surface.

. . .

Please review!

_**PLEASE REVIEW!**_

_**PLEASE REVIEW!**_


	7. Never Go Into Radio

Same diclaimers as before

Chapter 7: Never Go Into Radio

Finch landed with a silent crouch on a grassy knoll within Delia's memory. The heat and sun indicated that it was midsummer. He rose to his feet and looked down the hill at a steel and concrete bunker. Emblazoned on the arch over the doorway, the name 'Larkhill' was emblazoned. He strolled casually down the hill, the only indication of his interest in his surroundings were his darting eyes.

As he reached the base of the hill and the door of the compound, he saw Delia standing nervously. She looked no younger than her corpse had been; She checked her watch several times as Finch watched her for a few minutes. Finally, there was a flash of light and a large group of people appeared before them. Half of them were garbed in black cloaks and pointed hoods with skull masks coving their identities. The other half were bound and gagged, their heads covered in tight black bags that restricted their breathing. There were five prisoners and five captors. Delia sighed in relief and motioned them forwards into the building.

Finch watched as the prisoners struggled harshly against their bonds. Two of them appeared to be women. The other three were very fat men. Delia smiled in excitement as she closed the door behind her.

The memory blurred and when it came back into focus, Finch was standing in a long hallway with doors running down it, each marked with a roman numeral. He walked down the hall, ignoring the screams from within the rooms he passed until he reached the door at the end of the hall. He walked through the door. Inside was a large office and laboratory. Delia, Prothero, and Lilliman were all sitting at a main desk while white-coated healers and scientists dashed around the lab, mixing potions in large, bubbling cauldrons and igniting spells across the room. In the center of the room, a man with a bag over his head was strapped down on a table, writhing in pain as various potions and mixtures were injected into his body and spell were cast upon him.

"It's not working," said Delia nervously to the two men, "We haven't been able to solidify a single compound that has the desired effect."

Lilliman yawned, adjusting the collar around his neck. "Don't worry, my dear," he said, "God made wizards superior to muggles. I doubt there is anything that can make one completely immune to magic. Let alone any mixture that could work on a muggle."

"Besides," interjected Prothero, looking mighty proud in his fresh, black robes and hood, "Your assignment has changed. Our master requires proof that mudbloods stole their magic in utero from squibs."

Delia stared at him in amazement. "Impossible. There are more mudbloods than squibs. And even then, it's already known that even mudbloods tend to have a wizard or witch in their family tree somewhere up the line."

Prothero waved her statement off lazily. "We just need something to fall back on, ma'am," he said, "We don't need the truth."

Delia hesitated, but nodded. The memory went hazy again and Finch found himself in the same laboratory. There was a line of people in orange jumpsuits with bags over their heads slowly trudging through in a line. Black garbed guards would force them to walk over to Delia and other healers before they would march them out of the lab. When they got to Delia, she would take a syringe and quickly inject them with a golden liquid.

"Felix Felicis?" muttered Finch to himself. He had seen the liquid years ago, but never in such quantities. There were cauldrons on the stuff scattered around the room. The line moved forwards and Delia tapped the needle to inject the next young man in line. Suddenly, the man snapped forwards, his bagged head slamming into Delia's unprotected one. Delia gasped and fell backwards as the man kicked forwards wildly. Before any guard could react, he kicked a cauldron of Felix Felicis and the luck liquid spilled to the floor, the cauldron making a loud clatter. The young man slipped hard in the potion and fell to the floor with a grunt. He splashed around in the magic mixture as guards dragged him to his feet and helped Delia up.

"I'll kill you!" rasped the young man as the guards held him still so Delia could inject him, "I'll burn you!"

"You're doing a service to your country," replied Delia grimly.

The bagged man cackled as he was dragged out of the room and back to his cell.

The memory blurred once more and Finch stared down the hallway from before. Delia was walking slowly down the row, a clipboard in one hand and a chalk in the other. As she passed the first few cells, she scrapped an 'X' on the metal door. She hesitated when she reached room five and double checked her clipboard before moving on. Finch closed his eyes and remembered what he had read in Delia's journal. Of the original 4 dozen test subjects she had been given, only a few had survived the first round of her treatment.

Finch walked over to room five and stared at the 'V' on the doorway. There was no doubt in his mind that V was the man from room five. He watched Delia walk down the hall, knowing the catastrophe that was about to strike. As if on a cue, the door to room five exploded in fire. Delia spun around and gasped as the flame rushed forwards. Delia surrounded herself with a fire-proof charm just in time, but the force of the explosion forced her into the air. Finch stood and watched as metal twisted and the compound collapsed from the force and heat of the explosion.

The memory hazed again and Finch watched as Delia worked with a rescue team to try and salvage reports and information from the burning building. Delia looked up and gasped as she saw an intimidating shadow stand before the fire. The figure was difficult to make out, but Finch could still see the horrors of what had happened to his body. As far as he could see, most of his facial features had been wiped away from the fire. His skin was a burned, ashen color.

For a moment, the man simply stared at Delia. No, not stared, he had no eyes to stare with, but he could see her nonetheless. Slowly, the figure raised his arms and let loose a roar of rage that rattled Finch to his bones. This was no mere cry of anger; this was the shout of despair and hopelessness of a man who had lost everything. This was a roar of a new beginning; a new life with one singular focus: vengeance. This was a declaration of a vendetta.

Finch yanked his head back and gasped as he left the pensive. He panted for a few moments as he gathered himself and put the pensive on the floor of his balcony. It had stopped raining while he had been in the pensive. He stood up and went inside, in dire need of a drink. He had some firewhisky from 1973, a good year.

. . .

Evey awoke to the smell of frying eggs and the strains of light jazz. For a moment, she thought she was still in the Shadow Gallery, but when she cracked open her eyes, she remembered that she was in the spacious guest room of the Tonks household. She stretched and sighed contentedly as she stood up and quickly dressed herself. Following her nose, she walked downstairs to the kitchen, where Ted was hunched over the stove.

Hearing her, Ted turned and smiled at her. "Ah, bonjour mademoiselle!"

"Morning," said Evey, rubbing her eyes, "What's that you're making?"

"Piggies in a basket," he said, showing her the frying pan with eggs and bread in it, "My wife used to make them."

Evey stared at the eggs, her eyes darting back and forth between the breakfast and the cook. "This is…weird," she said finally, "The first morning I was with…him I had eggs just like these. He made them for me."

"Really?"

"I swear!"

"Huh," pondered Ted, "That is a strange coincidence. Although there is a very reasonable explanation."

"There is?"

"Yes," Ted leaned in close and whispered to her, "You see, Evey, I am V. At last you know the truth." He posed dramatically, "You're stunned, I know. It's hard to believe that underneath this wrinkled, old exterior, there lies a dangerous killing machine with a fetish for Fawksian masks." He struck a powerful pose with his fist in the air. "Viva la revolucion!"

Evey glared at him. "That's not funny."

Ted dropped his pose. "I know," he said with a sigh, "I need my wife to keep my wit sharp. Of course," he said, returning his attention to his eggs, "He was right, wasn't he? There is something wrong with this country."

. . .

Finch slowly reread the old newspaper from just a few months ago. One title read, 'Mudbloods Steal Magic!', while another shouted, 'Was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Right All Along?'. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as Dominic walked in.

"Morning Inspector," he greeted, "You're early, something wrong?"

Finch paused before waving his wand at the door. "Muffilato," Finch stood up and began to pace. "I want to ask a question, Dominic," he said, "I don't care if you answer me or not. I just need to say this aloud and I need to know that this will not leave this office."

"Of course, boss," said a confused Dominic, "Is this about the terrorist?"

"No. Yes. Sort of."

"Ah. Good to know how informed we are."

Finch silenced him with a glare. "The question I want to ask, the question that's kept me up for the last 24 hours is this; what if the worst, most inhumane actions possible were performed on innocent English muggle and mudblood citizens," he said.

Dominic blinked. "I don't understand. I mean, mudbloods stole magic, they stole the livelihoods and dignity of countless squibs; they deserve to be imprisoned, but why muggles?"

"Mudbloods stole magic," murmured Finch, "Maybe that's true." He motioned to the newspapers and files on his desk. "But I see this chain of events, these coincidences, and I have to ask if that's true. What if mudbloods don't steal magic in the womb? What if that was a ploy made in order to fool the public?" he glanced up, "Would you want to know who it was that tricked the wizarding world?"

Dominic stared. "Sure,"

Finch locked eyes with his subordinate. "Even if it was somebody working for this government?" Dominic hesitated and did not answer. "That's my question," said Finch, "What if our government lied to us and persecuted innocent people? Would you really want to know?"

. . .

Voldemort stood in the center of the sitting room of Malfoy Manor. Surrounding him was his inner circle of associates. "I am tired of this," he said with a sigh, "Is the terrorist V dead?"

"It cannot be confirmed, my lord," hissed Bellatrix, "We never found his body."

Voldemort closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. "I would much prefer to focus my attention on finding Potter. This distraction in London has gone on long enough."

"If I may, my lord," said Severus quietly, "This is a delicate stage of your ascension. We must gather the trust of the people before we can declare martial law. The terrorist is an annoyance, but one we must endure for the time being."

Voldemort exhaled impatiently. "Very well, Severus, I will trust your judgement." He turned to Yaxley. "What information have you managed to gather on the terrorist, Yaxley?"

Yaxley gulped and fudgited with his cloak. "We haven't been able to confirm, well, anything, sire."

"I see," said Voldemort with a sigh, "No information. Do you have any news to report that would indicate any competence on your part, Yaxley?"

Yaxley set his teeth. "Arrests are at an all-time high, sire."

"I don't want arrests, Yaxley," said Voldemort slowly, "I want results. And I now have serious doubts about your abilities to deliver them to me."

. . .

Ted popped a bottle of champain and poured the bubbly drink into a flute for Evey. "What's all this about?" she asked.

"We're celebrating."

"Celebrating what?"

Ted grinned as he sipped his own drink. With a flick of his wand, the radio came flying into the sitting room and rested on the coffee table. It hummed to life and static burst through. Ted tapped it with his wand. "Andromeda!" The static vanished and the airwaves came through clear. "I got in touch with the Weasley lads a few days ago," he explained, "They let me record a segment."

"And welcome back to Potterwatch, the radio for those with common sense. I'm your host River, and joining me in the studio now is my good friend Bear. How are you, Bear?"

"I'm quite well, thank you River." Evey gasped and stared at her host in shock. Ted swished his drink around in his glass, a small smile playing across his face. "We recorded it this afternoon. I rather enjoy the sound of my own voice, don't you?" he said.

"So, what have you been up to lately?" asked River on the radio.

"Oh, you know, the usual, dodging Death Eaters. Oh, I'm sorry, _Snatchers_ is apparently what we're calling them these days."

"Why Bear!" exclaimed River in mock surprise, "Are you saying you believe that the government is now run by the Dark Lord and his followers?"

"The Death Eaters? Run the Ministry? No, no, no, no, they have people for that." A laugh track played on the radio as Evey choked on her drink.

"So you're saying that the Death Eaters don't control the government, they control the people who control the government?"

"Well, I'm afraid it's not that simple, River," said Ted along with his voice on the radio, "Some Death Eaters are closely involved with the workings of the Ministry now that they've taken over. Which just goes to show that politics attract evil. For example, I heard the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is none other than convicted Death Eater Yaxley. That's right folks, we have a known Death Eater in charge of one of the most powerful branches of the government. And if you think that's the pinnacle of the Death Eater's influence over our ministry, think again. Our own minister, Pius Thicknesse, inherited his title from a predecessor who died under mysterious circumstances, is often described as 'dazed, confused, and unsure of his surrounds', and is highly susceptible to those will of those around him, all classic signs of someone under the Imperius Curse. "

"Well, thank you for that insight, Bear. Anything else you'd like to say?"

"Certainly. My best to Harry Potter and his friends. We're all counting on you. To any Death Eaters listening, or even the Dark Lord himself, know that you are-" Here a buzzing noise kicked in and blotted out what Ted was saying. "Aw," groaned Ted, "Some people just can't stomach vulgarity." After a few moments, the bleeping cut out and silence reigned.

Finally, River cleared his throat. "Um, thank you very much for those….powerful words, Bear."

"My pleasure, River."

"That's all for tonight, folks. Join us next time when our password will be Dearborn." The radio cut out.

Evey stared at the radio and then at her host and then at the radio again. "You're mad." She whispered.

"That or I was dropped as a child."

"Is everything a joke to you, Ted?"

"Only the things that matter."

"They'll come after you. After me."

"Oh please," Ted said, taking a sip of his drink. "They'll never find those boys and they'll never find us. Trust me."

. . .

Evey wished she could have slept. She wished she could just forget the terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, but her anxiety would not go away. She could sense the coming danger.

There was a crash downstairs and she sat up in bed, her eyes wide. "Ted?"

Her host entered her room and closed the door behind him softly. His eyes were narrow and angry. "Under the bed, Evey, quickly," he hissed as he braced himself against the door. Evey quickly slid off the bed and rolled under it, blocking her mouth with a hand.

The door burst open and Ted was thrown to the floor as men in black cloaks and hoods entered the room and pummeled him. "Hold," the beatings stopped as a man in a black trench coat entered the room. "Not so funny now, is it?" he said softly, "Next time, don't use your wife's name as a password." His fist slammed into Ted's fragile, old face and the old wizard spun to the ground. His eyes met Eveys' as his hands were cuffed tightly and a black bag was forced over his head. Evey had to push her jaw up to keep from screaming. The men dragged Ted's lifeless form out of room and Evey crawled out from the bed as they closed the door. Sobbing as quietly as she could, she scampered over to the window, grabbing her wand as she did.

"Descendo!" she whispered as she opened the window. Gently she floated down and landed on the grass. As soon as her feet hit dirt, she ran for the garden gate.

A hand wrapped around her arm and neck. "Gotcha."

"No!" she screamed, "No!" Something went over her head and everything went black.

. . .

Seriously guys? Just review please.


	8. What Petunia Wrote

Same disclaimers as before

Chapter 8: What Petunia Wrote

Evey didn't know how long the black bag had been over her head. She didn't recognize any of the sounds around her and the movements forced upon her were erratic and made it impossible to tell where she was. Not that she was really busy trying to find out her whereabouts. She was to focused on being scared out of her wits.

Her heart skipped a beat whenever she was touched or pushed. As this happened often, she felt like she was going to die of fear rather than anything else. She shook like a portkey, her body completely unable to stay still. She was too scared to even apparate. Her wand, her only real means of defense had been taken from her before she could fight back. Now, all there was to do now was wait.

Needless to say, the suspense was killing her. Or perhaps that would come later.

Finally, after a long period of moving, sitting still, moving again, marching, shoving, and moving once more, she was finally forced into an uncomfortable metal chair and the black bag was ripped abruptly off her head.

Evey sobbed and winced at the sudden bright light that shone upon her. The light refracted in the tears that poured out of her eyes, making it all the more painful. Evey appeared to be in a tight, steel room. She was sitting at a metal desk where a large, white lamp shone directly into her face. Behind the desk, a figure was silhouetted against yet more lights. She couldn't make out any discernable features.

"Do you know why you are here, Evey Hammond?" the voice was cold and even.

Evey shook violently, her shoulders rising and falling like pistons. "Please," she whispered, desperate for the slightest compassion, "Please."

"You have been formally charged with multiple counts of murder, attempted murder, the bombing of government buildings, terrorism, attempted terrorism, stealing magic, treason, sedition, and attempted revelation of our world to muggles," the figure leaned forwards, "The penalty for which is death by killing curse." Evey's eyes felt like jelly, they were so wet with tears. Her face was scrunched up in fear. "You have one chance, and only one chance, to save your life," continued the man slowly, "You must tell us the identity or whereabouts of Codename V." He paused to let that sink in. Evey clenched and unclenched her fists in terror. She had never been privy to either of those things. She had been blindfolded when V took her to Lilliman and he always wore his mask. "If your information leads to his capture, you will be released from custody immediately. Do you understand what I'm telling you? You can return to your life, Ms. Hammond. All you have to do is cooperate." Evey could practically hear the smirk in his voice. She would have been angry if she wasn't so scared. She breathed hard and tried to plead her case, but no words escaped her terrified lips. After a few seconds, the figure waved his hand. "Process her."

Evey was grabbed roughly by the arm and yanked to her feet. She was forcibly spun around and shoved towards a door. On the other side was a dirty, mangy, white-tiled room with a simple stool in the middle with a simple grey and black stripped robe lying on it. "Change," she was ordered as her captor left the room before she could get a glimpse of him. With shaking hands, she undressed and slipped into the prison suit. It was thin and uncomfortable. It made her feel both naked and overdressed at the same time. The door swung open with a crash and she spun. A man in a white coat with a black mask over his face pointed to the stool and she quickly sat down. The man walked up behind her and she heard a distinct buzzing noise. Evey wept and shook as she realized what it was. The man put the electric razor to work, sheering off her hair like sheep wool. She stayed perfectly still, or as still as she could be under the circumstances. The man was unnecessarily rough, dragging the razor across her head and manhandling her skull like a bowling ball.

Finally, after what felt like eternity, he was done. Evey had never felt so vulnerable and humiliated in her life. As she was forced to her feet, she looked down on her proud brown hair, fallen and motionless upon the floor. She felt like they were snakes about to bite her for giving them up so easily. The man in the coat marched her back into the other room and through a second door. This one led to a dark, metal hallway with several doors. At the far end, a guard stood watch, a wand in his hand. The man in the coat opened one of the doors and shoved Evey into a small, tight cell, adorned only with a filthy, unclean toilet.

For a moment, Evey just stood in the center of her cell, still trying to process all that had happened. She prayed that Ted was alright, but knew that there was no way he would escape unharmed. As she looked around the cell, she swore she could hear the screams and wails of its previous occupants. Was this Azkaban? She had heard that the dementors had left their post, but that didn't make this place any less soul-crushing. Slowly, Evey huddled into a corner and wrapped her knees close to her chest, sobbing and weeping uncontrollably.

After another eternity, the door to her cell opened and she was roughly pulled up. She kept her head down as she was forced into a new room. She closed her eyes in apprehension as she was stripped. She began to cry and scream when her arms were forced up and shackled to a pipe. She shivered in fear of what was about to happen. Some older girls she had known had been through rough experiences like this, and the stories they told had made her stay up at night.

Fortunately, nobody touched her. Unfortunately, she was blasted by a hard, frigid sensation to her back. She screamed in pain as her nerves were overloaded with the cold. Was this the Cruciatus Curse? She had never experienced it, but it certainly lived up to its reputation. A fine mist began to envelope her and something splashed around her feet. She looked down and gasped. Water? This wasn't the torture spell? It was water? She almost laughed in relief, but that was quickly put to rest as the water intensified. She felt her vertebras crack from the water pressure and cried out in pain.

After a while, the water turned off. In a daze, she was dressed and brought back to her cell where she crumpled in an exhausted heap on the floor. A few hours later, a slot in her door opened and a plate of unappealing food was tossed into her cell. Before she could even react, a large rat shot out from a hole in the wall of her cell and dove into the food. It looked up at her, as if daring her to challenge it. Evey just curled into a ball.

Ages passed and more food was delivered. The rat ran out again, but this time sniffed the food and ran back to its hole, uninterested in the spoiled meat and rotting fruit. Evey shivered and waited. Still more time passed in silence. Evey wasn't crying anymore. She hadn't accepted her fate, but her fear had moved beyond tears.

She heard a scratching sound from the far wall. Slowly, Evey lifted her head and stared at the cement. She crawled towards the rat hole and carefully peered inside. She couldn't see anything. Flexing her fingers, she plunged her hand within the hole, grabbed something, and pulled it out. She breathed hard in relief that the rat hadn't bitten her. She looked at her closed fist and stared at the small, rolled up paper that she had found. Slowly, she unfurled it and began to read.

. . .

I know there's no way I can convince you that this isn't one of their tricks, but I don't care. I am me. My name is Petunia. I don't think I'll live much longer and I wanted to tell someone about my life. This is the only autobiography that I will ever write. Dear God, I'm writing it on toilet paper.

My life was relatively normal, when I was young. I had loving parents, a younger sister who I doted on. We had no connections to anything magical or such. That all changed on my sister's seventh birthday when she nearly burned out house down when she blew out the candles on her cake. After that, our family was never the same. Lily began to show more and more power as the years went on. She stopped being the little sister I could guide and protect to being the little sister who could guide and protect me. It's far too late for me to apologize now for how I felt, but I wish I could go back and tell her.

I was jealous. She was something I could never hope to be, though God knows I tried. She would show me how her powers had grown and I would tell her how unnatural it was. In my defense, I thought it was weird, exciting, but weird. It wasn't until we met a boy with powers like Lily's that we realized that she wasn't alone in all this. We discovered the whole wizard culture and I loved all of it. It was so wonderful and exciting to watch Lily fly through the air, or grow roses out of her hands. But could never stop thinking how unfair it was. How come Lily had all this wonderful power and I didn't? What made her more special than me?

When Lily was eleven, she got her Hogwarts letter. God she was so excited. Our parents fawned over her. I hated her. She was going to be completely immersed in everything I wanted, and I was stuck in the middle of nowhere, going to school like every other English child. I wrote a letter to the headmaster, hoping that a non-magical person like me could find some way, some loophole, to get in. He was very nice and replied right away, but his reply was still no.

When I saw Lily off at King's Cross for her first year, we got into a row. She had read my letter and wanted to comfort me, but I didn't want her pity. When she left, I cried myself to sleep on the way home.

Lily would come back during holidays and summers, but I made a point to avoid her. Once during her third year, she tried to show me some of her tricks, but I got angry and nearly snapped her wand. She left me alone after that. Whenever I saw her at meals and whatnot, I felt a bile grow in me, like a wave of bitterness. When she went back to school, I would go back to mine. I didn't have many friends, but I didn't need many.

After she finished with school, Lily got married to her boyfriend and I went off to college where I met my husband. I never kept close contact with my sister, but from what I understand she was something of a freedom fighter in those days, although what she was fighting against I haven't the slightest.

I married Vernon after a few years of dating. He was perfect. He loved me and shared my hatred for anything abnormal and inhuman. He was wonderful and made me feel like a princess, even if it meant he had to put others down to raise me up. We moved into a nice little house in Little Whinging and had a son, Dudley. For a while, everything was wonderful. Lily and I talked a bit every now and then. We weren't friends, but we were still sisters and we wrote letters occasionally. Nothing strange was happening to my family, we all loved each other and, while things weren't perfect, they were pretty damn close.

Then everything changed. My sister and her husband died and left us as the guardians of their son. I knew the moment I looked at him that he shared their powers. Every fiber of my being wanted to throw him into an orphanage. I couldn't do it, not again. I couldn't watch as someone be special and better than me just because they were born.

Vernon shared my views and we were going to dispose of him, but the Headmaster of Hogwarts himself came to us and told us that if we got rid of him, it would put our family in danger. I wasn't going to let my prejudice endanger my loved ones, so I kept to boy.

For years, I did my best to ignore him. Dudley and Vernon tormented him and I played my part in their little games, trying to make sure the boy never discovered what he was and why he was so much better than us. I don't even think Dudley knew why we hated him, he just wanted to be like his parents.

Every time I looked at him, I thought about Lily and how things had been between us. I tried not to feel too much regret, but I couldn't control my heart, just my actions.

Eventually, Harry did find out and the cycle began all over again. He went off to have fun and adventures at Hogwarts while we withered in our normality. After he left, we would start to feel happy again, like we were just as good as anyone else. But as soon as he returned, we would realize just how powerless and insignificant we were compared to him.

Interesting things happened to my nephew. He apparently had a serial killer for a godfather, likely my brother-in-law's choice, and he turned my sister-in-law into a blimp. To be fair, I didn't like her much myself and was rather satisfied to see her in such a predicament, but I digress. He even saved Dudley from some magical creatures that attacked them.

I guess I just tried to ignore the elephant in the room that emerged as time went by; that as Harry grew older, the dangers in his life, and by proxy ours, grew stronger. By the time he was seventeen, we had to leave Privet Drive. The last time I saw Harry, I felt the same regret I did every time I saw him. I wanted so bad to tell him how I felt, to apologize for everything. Maybe that would have given me closure, maybe that would have made me as good and as special as Lily. But I was too damn proud.

We had a security escort that was going to take us to a safe house, but we were attacked along the way. As a mother, there's nothing that has ever made me more afraid than seeing a black bag over my baby's head. They took us to wherever we are now and tossed us in separate cells. Every now and then, they remember to bring me food. A few days ago, they took me into a laboratory and injected me with stuff before casting spells on me. I'm not sure what they wanted from me, but it hurt. My insides still feel like they're burning.

I'm not sure how much longer I'll live. I can hear my family crying out from their cells, their screams mixed with other prisoners. I don't cry anymore.

Something is wrong. When Lily and I first learned about the wizarding world, it was never like this. For what crime am I locked in here for? For not being special? Is that my fault? I don't understand why they hate us so much.

It's getting harder to think. Maybe what they injected into me messed with my head. All I want to think about is my family. Vernon, Dudley, even Harry and Lily. I loved all of them, even if I didn't show it. I hope that I meet Lily someday so I can apologize.

It seems strange that my life should end in such a terrible place, but for decades I had a family, and I'm not sorry for that.

I'm going to die here, every centimeter of me. A centimeter. It is a small thing, fragile and weak, but it is the only thing worth having and we must never give it away. We must never let them take it from us.

I hope you escape this place, whoever you are. I hope that the world turns and things get better. But most of all, I hope you understand that even though I don't know you, I love you. With the same love I feel for my husband, and my son, and my nephew, and my sister, I love you.

-Petunia

. . .

Days passed in the cell. Evey would be fed, taken for torture and interrogation, say in a consistent monotone. "I don't know," to every question, and then return to her cell to re-read Petunia's letter. She didn't know how often she had read it over the course of her imprisonment, but she could now quote it word for word and ran it through her head during her tortures. Someone loved her. Even if that someone didn't know her, even if that someone wasn't real, someone loved her. Petunia had led a life of happiness and regrets, a life she hoped would inspire others to follow a different path, a path of love rather than jealousy.

Evey would often close her eyes and open them in a different room, blacking out while she was carted to various torture rooms. This time, she opened her eyes to face the bright lights of the room she had been brought to when she was first captured. The figure was still sitting across the desk from her. He was twirling a wand in his hand, her wand.

"I'm instructed to inform you that you have been found guilty by special tribunal and unless you are willing to offer your cooperation, you are to be executed. Do you understand?"

Evey glared at him. "Yes."

"Are you ready to cooperate?"

"No."

"Very well," the figure stood with a grunt. He took her wand in both hands and snapped it. The sound reverberated around the room and Evey felt her heart get caught in her throat. She wanted to throw up, but forced it down. "Take her out behind the chemical shed and kill her." He said as he left the room, dropping her wand halves on the floor. Evey closed her eyes and she was brought back to her cell. She grabbed Petunia's letter from the floor and held it in her hands.

The door opened and a masked man walked in. "It's time," he said lazily.

"I'm ready," said Evey. She stood up, the letter encased in her fist.

"Look," said the man with a sigh, "All they want is one little piece of information. Just give them something, anything really, and I don't have to kill you."

Evey glared at him. "Thank you, but I'd rather die behind the chemical shed."

"Then you have no fear anymore." Evey blinked in confusion as the man walked out of her cell, leaving the door wide open. Cautiously, she poked her head out into the hallway. She expected the ever-present guard to react, but he made no move to stop her as she walked slowly out of her cage. She slowly drew closer to him and her hand flew to her mouth. He was a lifeless mannequin and his wand a whittled twig. Evey stared at him and walked quickly passed him.

At the end of the hall was a door. Evey approached it and gently turned the handle. Immediately, she heard the strains of light, classical piano playing. She froze for a moment, her blood rushing from her face. After a moment, she walked through the door.

Beyond it was the familiar beige walls covered with art and artifacts of the Shadow Gallery. Evey stood in shook as she looked around her in wild fear.

V walked out from behind a pillar, pulling his gloves tighter. "Hello, Evey," he said conversationally.

. . .

Please review!


End file.
